My Life Would Run Much More Smoothly
by Aunt Kitty
Summary: A collection of vignettes featuring Donald Mallard and Cassandra Talmadge.  Not a sequel, just snippets.  No plot, so don't worry that it's not complete. Will probably never be complete; Sandy won't shut up.
1. We Have Engaged The Borg

**A/N:** I said "Chaos" was the end and I mean it. No more stories. But… this is not a story. It's not even real chapters, more a collection of vignettes. I really intended to the end to be THE END—but Sandy kept tapping my shoulder: "Did I tell you about…?" and bugging me with little scenes that kept popping up and it seemed rude not to share them. So call this a post-script to a letter, if you will… (The titles are still stolen from Linda's button collection. For any other comments, see the prior stories.) Hopefully the chapters will post in chronological order—but, with Sandy, you never know when she'll bring up an "oh, my god, listen to this" snippet.

If you haven't read "Chaos" you will probably be a little lost. Won't hurt to read "TGIF," "OHIM and "Life," too, if you have the time.

**Disclaimer: **All NCIS characters are the property of Bellisarius Productions, Paramount, CBS and the appropriate copyright holders within those companies. All other characters for this story (barring real persons mentioned in passing) are my original creation and property.

**Rating:** T (for the occasional cuss word, most likely)

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><p><strong>My Life Would Run Much More Smoothly If I Had A Copy Of The Script<strong>

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><p><strong>We Have Engaged The Borg. Wedding 4PM Sunday, Reception 6PM.<strong>

December 8. 2:00 p.m.

It took some wrangling, a little arguing ("September is blech, October has Halloween, November has Thanksgiving." "Well, December has Christmas, plus it snows in the winter—if you haven't noticed." "Okay—next year? Spring?" "And have Mother think either or both of us have gotten cold feet?" "I still say we should run away. Vegas? Fran wouldn't have to fly back out, she could meet us there—" "And face the wrath of our friends and family? If we run away to Vegas, we'd better _stay_ in Vegas."), a little shuffling (The Episcopal church Ducky wandered into four or five times a year had a minister willing to perform the ceremony—but they already had a morning wedding _and_ an evening wedding booked in. If we were willing (and able) to find another venue, Father Parker would happily meet us there. The backyard started looking more and more appealing.) and one major snit-fit ("Just choose whatever you want, whomever you want, wherever you want, tell me when and where and I'll show up—I don't care! Just, please, for my sake, choose _some_thing. _Any_thing!" (Sad to say that was yours truly snarking at Ducky—like I had to spell that out?))—but we finally had a date and time that wasn't written in Jell-o. Besides—while we proved with Charlie's party we can both plan fast, pulling off a wedding would take a little more finesse than a poker and pizza party. We needed a _little_ time.

But… where would we hold the ceremony? It would be too cold for an outdoor wedding (I didn't want to turn my wedding gown into a parka), and all of the hotels were booked solid.

That's what _I_ thought.

Ducky placed a call or two to the Millennia Hotel—to Mrs. Islington, the general manager, in particular. When Alyce Carson shot Fran it created _an unfortunate incident_ as their PR department called it. The fact that Ducky was able to identify Alyce and have said incident wrapped up that same day saved them a huge amount of bad publicity. So when he asked if there was _any_ accommodation they could make for a relatively small wedding she moved heaven and earth and a couple of room partitions to get us the needed room. And provided both the room and the reception as a thank you/wedding gift from the hotel. They probably figured they would have lost five times the revenue without his intervention. (He should solve attempted murders more often.)

The crowd was manageable. Yes, Ducky knows everyone on the planet—but you don't necessarily _invite_ "everyone" you know when you get married. So we had family (_very_ small for him, moderate for me), friends (smallish for me, amazingly moderate for him) and coworkers (about 50/50). The only out-of-towners were Fran and her fiancé, Cal… and Fran's parents. Yes, Mary was there. Quiet… but there. I think that was Ducky's favorite wedding gift. (He was in tears when we picked them all up at the airport. And I cried, too.)

We kept the number of attendants manageable, too. One best man (Gibbs), one matron of honor (my sister-in-law, Barb) and one flower girl (Charlie). Fantasea turned out some beautiful gowns—besides mine, I mean. Barb swore this was the first dress she wouldn't chuck into the back of the closet, Charlie was thrilled that her moms allowed her to wear high heels (tiny high heels—but heels nonetheless) with the dark blue and silver frock that literally left her speechless. And Mother—well, Mother looked awesome. A darker blue and more muted silver taffeta and lace sheath dress and bolero jacket—she was absolutely regal. And she looked so proud I thought she was going to burst.

With Ducky and Gibbs rather involved in the ceremony, the NCIS contingent stepped in to keep Mother where she belonged. Suzy, Ev and Lily were glued to her right, Abby and Ziva seated on the left. Right behind them were "the boys"—Agents DiNozzo and McGee, along with Jimmy Palmer—and the Director of NCIS herself, Jenny Shepard (who said nothing could keep her from our wedding—and had provided some interesting, mimosa-encouraged tales during the Abby-I-really-don't-need-this bridal shower the month before, tales I had yet to question Ducky about).

We managed to get through with no disasters. I didn't trip and fall (a recurring nightmare). Neither Ducky nor I dropped each other's ring and had to go scurrying (second most popular recurring nightmare). Nobody fainted, nobody threw up. Nothing worthy of _America's Funniest Home Videos_.

"Cassandra Eloise Talmadge, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To—"

"Yes, she does!"

I pressed my lips together to keep from giggling and Ducky just closed his eyes for a moment. Apparently Mother still didn't trust us not to screw things up.

"Donald Andrew Mallard—"

"Yes! He does!" She cut Fr. Parker off, even louder than before. There was a very tiny "shh" from one of her keepers. I guess I was premature about _Funniest Videos_…


	2. Life Is Too Precious And Marriage

**Life Is Too Precious And Marriage Is Too Sweet To Rush Into Relationships That Are Less Than Best For You**

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><p><em>Honeymoon: <em>(_noun)_ _1_. _A vacation or trip taken by a newly married couple. __2. The__ month or so following a marriage. __3. A__ny period of blissful harmony. 4. Any new relationship characterized by an initial period of harmony and goodwill. _

Or, in the more colloquial parlance, a chance to ditch family and friends for a week or two, lounge about a palatial suite, order champagne and exotic meals from room service and go at it like rabbits on aphrodisiacs.

("Why travel halfway around the globe? We do all that right here." "Yeah, right. Mother _never_ gets up in the middle of the night, one or the other of us does the cooking—" "One out of three isn't bad…") I knew he was teasing, so I left a couple of brochures for couples only/adults only vacation spots scattered about (on his desk… on the bed… tucked in his laptop (Unfortunately, on that day Gibbs was trying to be helpful—opened up the laptop, stared for a moment, said, "Your fiancée left you a message," closed it… and went back upstairs without another word.)… Ducky actually liked the idea. Remembering my frequent bad luck with planes, he booked us on the ship _Grace and Favor_ and a three-week January trip through the Caribbean. (Yes, we waited a month. Would we miss Christmas? Heck, no.)

A honeymoon was one thing but I was more than a little hesitant about leaving Mother for _three_ _weeks_. The store would survive; they had a substitute ME for NCIS; but Mother…?

"It will be fine," Suzy reassured me. "I'll stay here during the week, the girls will be over just about every day—and we have the weekends covered… Go. Enjoy yourself."

We did. Okay, the stateroom on the boat was on the small side—but, let's face it, unless you own your own yacht _any_ stateroom is bound to feel small. It was a lovely room, regardless; the entertainment was first-rate, the food was beyond first-rate (I think I put on fifteen pounds over the three weeks), the resorts where we put in to port were just exotic enough to be a thrill and we lucked out that most of the other couples—married or otherwise—were a pleasure to be around.

Most were also newlyweds. About 2/3 were in the 20-30s range, a sprinkling in the 40s and the rest our age or above. (The top of the heap was a couple in their 90s—93 (he) and 96 (she) ("I've always had a thing for older women.") whose grandkids all pitched in for the trip.) We were treated to a lot of proud parent/proud grandparent pictures from all quarters (and in the case of the Meierhausers, proud _great_-grandparent pictures).

So, after sun, sand, surf and three weeks of lazy fun, I wasn't _that_ surprised when Ducky broached the idea of children. (That was a _lot_ of pictures to admire.)

We were less than a day out of homeport when he gently hinted that I seemed tired.

"Hey. We just took first, second and third in the sexual Olympics," I teased. "_You_ should be a little tired, too."

He blushed faintly. And grinned (a little smugly). "Well… yes. But I'm just concerned that you feel… all right."

I laughed. "I feel great! More than great."

"I just thought—well—" He hesitated. "Perhaps you should call Dr. Lester when we get home."

My amusement dropped just a hair. "Honey… I know we discussed this after my surgery. We stopped using the condoms when we thought I was pregnant—and decided not to go back. If the gods want us to be pregnant—well, _me_ to be pregnant—" I shrugged slightly. We weren't actively _trying_ to get pregnant—but we weren't throwing up any roadblocks.

"Dearest…" He reached over and took my hand. "I think you _are_ pregnant."

I stared at him for a _long_ moment. "Come again?"

He didn't even make an attempt at a dirty rejoinder. "I know you're the one with the soothsayer name. But… I think you're pregnant."

"How so?"

It was his turn to shrug. "I can't say exactly why. It's just… different." I was still confused. "From the moment we left the States, from the first time we made love on the trip, it's felt—different."

Remembering what had happened last time, my hands went cold.

He felt the temperature drop and quickly took both of my hands in his. "Not _bad_ different, not _wrong_ different—just… different. And I can't even tell you _why_. But I just have this… _tingle_ in the back of my mind that… you're pregnant."

"Hey." I tried to lighten the mood. "I wouldn't be the first woman to have a baby nine months after the wedding."

And that was precisely what Dr. Lester said when I called her the next day.

I didn't have to spell it out for her. After the last time, I was worried we were facing another snake eyes in the craps game of life—and this time might be worse. So while I promised Ducky I would call, I didn't let him know that I would be pleading for a lunchtime work-in. And, hearing the quiver in my voice, she acceded.

It was a quick appointment, in and out in fifteen minutes. A couple of fast errands after and then I was back at the store and scurrying to play catch-up (I have a great staff, but there's _always_ something only I can really handle) with Dr. Lester's cautions, concerns and suggestions fluttering through my mind as I ran hither and yon. I made it home by six and discovered Suzy had thrown together dinner, bless her heart.

"I figured you could use some ease-back-into-the-routine time," she said while I gushed my thanks. "Enjoy it while it lasts—I figure I'll leave you on your own about Wednesday."

Ducky was equally appreciative (Suzy makes killer ribs). But it's amazing how tired you can be after three weeks of vacation; we were both beat by eight o'clock. Mother was understanding about our exhaustion and didn't whine about chatting online with Charlie—who, with school in session, had an early bedtime as well.

After settling Mother in bed with _Friday's Child_ (another favorite Regency romance), I checked the locks and scurried upstairs. Ducky had only been a couple of minutes ahead of me, and was standing next to the bed with the square box I'd left on the bed in his hands. "For me?" When I nodded, he gave me a quizzical look. "For…?" When I didn't answer, he added, "Why?"

"Open it and find out, silly."

"Heavy…" he muttered, slitting the white paper. "_Quite_ heavy…" It took both hands to pull out the golden stand and then the clear orb. "A… crystal ball?"

"It was Dr. Lester's idea. Sort of. I mean, she asked me if you used a crystal ball…"

His grip tightened on the ball. (Good thing, too—dropping that thing would have broken a few toes.) "Do you mean—are you—is it—?" He set the ball carefully on the bed.

I pulled an envelope out of the dresser drawer and fumbled a set of pictures into view. Typical V-shaped angles and, even though Dr. Lester had carefully pointed out the embedded embryo, to me it _still_ looked like cloud cover. But I knew Ducky would do a better job of interpretation. "She figures barely four weeks. She called you Criswell," I laughed, handing him the pictures. Hands shaking, he looked through the pictures, drawing in a slow breath as he did. Finally he looked up from the black and white prints. Astonishment. Shock. Almost disbelief. "Just in case, let's not—" He nodded quickly, dumbly. "But in the meantime…"

He dropped the pictures next to the crystal ball and threw his arms around me. "We'll upgrade the air conditioner immediately."

Not what I was expecting. "What?"

"Oh, darling—it will be hot and humid your last trimester—I want you to be comfortable, as comfortable as you can be—"

I laughed. How pragmatic. And how sweet. I snuggled into his shoulder. "Hey."

"Mmh?"

"Happy Father's Day."


	3. My Husband And I

**My Husband And I Are Either Going To Buy A Dog Or Have A Child. We Can't Decide Whether To Ruin Our Carpets Or Ruin Our Lives. (Rita Rudner)**

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><p>I guess it was an evening of scores. After how miserable things were last summer, I had the most uneventful pregnancy on record. (No complaints from me.) If it hadn't been for the jeans getting tighter, I wouldn't have had a clue. But I knew—and it took a lot to keep from spilling the beans.<p>

And we didn't.

Mother did.

We held the bash of the century for, appropriately enough, her 100th birthday. Her favorite gift? A diary from Gibbs. A _five_-_year_ diary. The rest of us were a little confused, but she got it right away. "Oh! How lovely! Now I shall have to be here for another five years so I can fill it up!" She gave Gibbs a sly smile. "I shouldn't want to disappoint Matthew, after all."

"Mrs. Mallard—you never do," he said gallantly.

A couple of weeks later, we were lounging around the new coffee table playing, of all things, the Harry Potter: Diagon Alley board game. It was Friday night, a lovely April evening; the whole crew was in residence.

I loosened the drawstring bow on my sweatpants. I found it silly to blow money on maternity clothes; sweats and bigger t-shirts would be fine for this fashion bug. But things were getting tight around the pregnancy pudge; we'd have to make an announcement one of these days.

Evelyn glanced over. "Damn, girl. I heard women 'let loose' after they land a husband, but—" She shook her head, teasing.

"Mommy!" Charlie chided from across the room. "That's not nice."

"That's okay, I wouldn't expect less from her," I shot back.

"I need to lose weight, too," Ev said consolingly. (Yeah, where? Your big toe?) "We can join a gym together."

"Oh, no!" Mother said, sitting up from where she was going over a photo album with Charlie. "That might not be good for the baby."

Charlie gave me a sympathetic glance; Mother had crowed that I was pregnant a couple of times in the past, Charlie probably figured this was another misfire. She said something in an undertone and Mother shook her head obstinately.

"No!" She looked at me, confused. "Cassandra, you _are_ pregnant—aren't you?"

I looked across the table. Ducky probably had the same thought I did—to prolong it at this point would be mean to her. Next to him, Suzy had a sneaky smile on her puss. "You want to add something?"

"Not until you do," she said, grinning.

I sighed. "Yes. We're pregnant." My, "Roughly September 15," was lost in the screams and squeals.

Suzy held her hand out, palm up. "Pay up."

Sighing, Lily dug her wallet out of her hip pocket. "She's been saying you're expecting for months," she grumbled, slapping a ten on Suzy's hand.

I gave Suzy a look. "Honey, I've been a nurse since God was in short pants. I've had five kids, I've got eight grandkids—the only thing I can spot faster is 'under the influence.'"

Hmm. That could prove helpful in the future years…


	4. I Am Suffering From

**I Am Suffering From A Sexually Transmitted Disease: Children!**

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><p>Over the next months, I got tons of advice. Mostly unsolicited, some helpful. ("Just move a cot into the bathroom," Barb said. "You think you're peeing constantly now? Wait until junior starts tap dancing on your bladder the last couple of months. Seriously—take extra undies with you when you leave the house." Suzy presented me with a wonderful pair of nurse's shoes. Sliders, so I didn't have to tie—or, rather, <em>try<em> to tie my shoes. Made for nurses who stand 12 hours a day, so the support was fabulous. And Abby gave me a t-shirt reading, _Boy? Girl? I was hoping for puppies! _) But nobody could really describe how it feels to have a beach ball growing under your t-shirt. By July I felt so huge, NASA should just shoot me into orbit and bounce signals off my butt.

"Are you _sure_ it's not twins?" I regularly grumbled to Dr. Lester.

"Nope! Just one nice, normally sized, healthy baby-to-be!" she would reply each time. We had opted for a lot of tests, wanting to know if there were any medical problems in the offing. So far, so good. But we had steadfastly declined to know the gender of baby-to-be. I liked the idea of being surprised.

I had no problem working all the way up to my due date. Running a bookstore is, after all, not hard labor (for the most part). The trips to book sales were a snap; I picked and stacked, Geoff, Alan or whoever was tagged as my gopher boxed and schlepped. Even if I had thought of doing things I shouldn't, nobody at the store would have let me. This wasn't my baby or Ducky's baby—it was _everybody's_ baby. Talk about 'it takes a village'…!

The last couple of months I took lots of naps. That, a perpetually sore back and my constant trips to the bathroom were the biggest symptoms; it was good to have a comfy daybed in the office.

September 10. Less than a week to go. The biggest question was if I was going to have the baby in prison—because if I heard one more, "Heavens, Cassandra, haven't you had that baby yet?" I was going to snap. (Chanda—who had come back to work part time—stepped up for me once, saying, "Oh, she had hers ages ago. She's just carrying this around for a friend." I was laughing so hard, I almost popped the kid out right then and there.)

Depending on the district, school had been in session for at least a week. The store was full of frantic parents trying to get the most books they could for the least amount of money. We have a special section of books required by the various local schools—the beginning of summer, it was packed solid, double-stack rows and overstock on the tops of the bookcases; now, it looked like locusts had been by. _Catcher in the Rye_—two copies left. _1984_—zip. _Brave New World_—zip. A handful of Shakespeare (I mostly stock the Pelican and Signet editions, I find them all over the place). _Fahrenheit 451_—gone_. _A few copies of _Huckleberry Finn _(gutsy teachers). Cliffs Notes and Monarch Notes—stripped.

After lunch, I was pooped. I staggered (well, waddled) to the office and stretched out for a nap.

No such luck.

I couldn't toss and turn (hell, I could barely move), but I wriggled, wraggled and just could _not_ get comfortable. My back was killing me—it had been for a couple of months, despite hot showers and long massages by my excruciatingly considerate husband. But there's only so much you can do when you have an extra forty pounds smack in one area of your bod.

Ducky was all for me going home. "Honey, it's just an aching back. Same aching back I had last night. Same aching back I had night before last. And the week before last. And last month. It comes. It goes. We've become quite good friends over the past months. But if I go home, you know Mother will just hover over me every second."

"And drive you quietly out of your mind."

"Or not so quietly." I sucked in a breath.

"Cassandra! What is it?"

"Just a twinge. No biggie. Probably one of the vertebrae shifting. Again."

"Oh, my darling… I wish I could take this on for you…"

"Yeah, next time I'll marry a seahorse."

It was a slow day in the morgue. We chatted for a good long time; just listening to his voice is a good way to relax. It didn't take away the backache (I figured the kid was planting his or her feet at the bottom of my spine and doing long stretches to prepare for a 10K marathon), but it made it more bearable. Plus, I knew that when I got home that night there would be another lovely, long massage waiting for me. I married a talented man.

"Cassandra? Dear?" Ducky's voice was taut. "I want you to hang up the phone and have someone drive you to the hospital. I'll call Dr. Lester."

"Ducky, it's just a freaking backache—"

"Cassandra, I've been noting every time you breathe more concertedly, when you seem to be in more pain. Your 'it comes and goes' backache is well timed every five minutes. _You're in labor!_"

Valerie drove me over (she drives a Jeep—it was the only vehicle I wasn't afraid I'd get stuck in). By the time I arrived—oh, _yeah_, I was in labor. At least I waited until I got into the ER before my water broke (I'm sure Valerie was grateful, if nothing else).

"Don't push yet," the nurse counseled.

Yeah, right. "Don't tell me, tell the kid!" I retorted. A line from _MacGyver_ popped out of my mouth. "The stork's comin' on a Lear jet!"

Ducky arrived at 2:12.

Dr. Lester arrived at 2:15.

Weighing in at eight-six-and-a-quarter and a whopping twenty-two inches (a fighting chance of being taller than her parents!) Alexandra Caitlin Mallard arrived at 2:18. I thought it was very kind of her to wait for the full cast to be assembled before putting in her appearance.


	5. Delusions Are Often Functional

**Delusions Are Often Functional. A Mother's Opinions About Her Children's Beauty, Intelligence, Goodness, Et Cetera Ad Nauseam, Keep Her From Drowning Them At Birth. (Robert Heinlein)**

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><p>Pft. Heinlein only said that because he never met Alexandra.<p>

Even ignoring Mom, Daddy and Grandma, the kid had an instant fan club. Abby, of course, was crazy about her. (Abby is crazy about babies, period. When she finally settles down, I figure her for five or six, easy.) McGee? He's a softie. He was cooing over the baby as much as Abby was. Between Tony and Jimmy, the kid is stocked for life with stuffed animals.

The biggest surprises? Ziva. And Gibbs.

For a while, I didn't think Ziva would give her back. "Oh, look at her eyes! She will be a very smart little girl." She scooped her up and snuggled her to her shoulder, singing so softly only half-dozing Alexandra could hear the words. (Later on, when we were alone, Ducky told me that Ziva had had a younger sister who died while just in her teens. It was an 'ah ha' moment. I figured Ziva would stay very close to the family from here on out... not that I objected.)

When Gibbs stopped by, he stood for a long moment just looking into the portable crib with a funny smile on his face. "That is one of the prettiest little girls I've ever seen." He gave me a sly smile. "Planning for a boy next year?"

I nodded my head toward Ducky. "Only if _he_ gets pregnant."

Ducky gave me a bemused look. "We'll work on that."

"Whoa!" Gibbs jerked his head and took a half-step back.

_Just_ what every new parent wants to hear. "What?" I managed to not screech. Barely.

"She just raised her head up!"

"And…?" I didn't understand the look of surprise. Almost astonishment.

"They don't normally do that this early. _Way_ early." He glanced at us and chuckled. "Mom and Dad… you are in for a fun ride with this one."

I closed my eyes and plopped back against the pillows. "Oh, _goody_."


	6. Don't Get Mad Get One Up

**Don't Get Mad—Get One Up**

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><p>"Oh! What a darling little girl! Such beautiful red hair—and such a sweet smile!"<p>

Ducky and I stopped midway between Pier One and Starbucks and exchanged glances. We get halted a lot when out with Alexandra; on the cuteness scale, she's off the charts. (I'd say we're biased, but we hear that a lot. So it must be true.)

The woman made googly noises into the stroller. "Is she your first?" Before I could answer, the woman added, "Grandchild, I mean?"

I sighed. Not the first time for that mistake; probably won't be the last time.

Ducky answered first. "No, she's not our granddaughter." She started to make a flustered apology. "She's my baby sister." With a pleasant smile and a polite, "Have a lovely weekend," he placed a hand on the small of my back and propelled us forward. It wasn't until we turned into the food court and were out of eyesight (and earshot) that we gave way to the giggles.

* * *

><p>"This is a pawn. It can only move forward and only one square at a time. Well—on the <em>first<em> move, it can advance two squares. And they move diagonally when they capture another piece, so that's a trifle confusing. This… is a bishop. It can move several squares, but only on the diagonal. Kitty-corner."

"Charlie? Honey?" I dug yet another toy from under the couch (how can one kid who doesn't even _walk_ yet scatter toys from the attic to the basement?) and blew the hair out of my eyes. "She's only three months old. She can barely chew on the pieces at this age." (Ducky had childproofed the house months before Alexandra was born. The chess set was soft, semi-squishy plastic and even the pawns were 4" high.)

Alexandra drooled happily and reached for the chess piece in Charlie's hand, which Charlie willingly surrendered.

"True. But I only learned to play this past year." Charlie's brow creased. "I'd hate for my only niece to be at such a disadvantage."

Already bored with chewing on the bishop, Alexandra flung it aside. (Answers the question of how toys get under the couch.) As aerodynamically designed as an Atlas missile, it made a nice arc, causing it to cover more distance than her chubby arm should managed… and landing square on Cooper. He yipped, leaped to his feet and stared around in confusion.

Charlie looked at Alexandra in approval. "Wow. Good arm. Let's work on softball, next."


	7. Sleep Is for the Weak And Sickly

**Sleep Is for the Weak And Sickly**

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><p>I nudged Ducky. "It's your turn."<p>

"No… I went last time."

"No, I'm sure I did. I remember thinking how damned cold it is at ten at night."

"Which is why _I_ adjusted the thermostat at midnight."

I sighed. "Crap. You're right."

"We could let her fuss for a while…" he said in a sleepy (and hopeful) voice.

"Get real. You know she won't hush up. She's far too awake." I shoved my feet into slippers and padded to the baby's room across the hall.

Sleeping like a little angel… and the curls of soft red-gold hair looked just like a halo. I scooped her up; she didn't even twitch. (She's a hard sleeper.) I walked carefully down the stairs and into Victoria's room.

She was already sitting up, waiting impatiently. "There she is! My _grandbaby_!"

"This is the last time," I said firmly, settling the now half-awake baby in her lap. "You both need your sleep!" (And so do Ducky and I!)


	8. Little Pitchers Have Big Ears

**Little Pitchers Have Big Ears—And Even Bigger Mouths**

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><p>To keep peace in the nation, I started working half-days. Alexandra and I would head into town; she would stay with me until mid-afternoon (being spoiled rotten left and right), then we'd head back home and find Victoria ready and waiting to take her afternoon promenade. Suzy Bailey (who had been with us a year and a half and—thank heavens—showed no signs of leaving) would wrangle the Corgis while Mother proudly pushed the stroller around the block. Ducky and I might occasionally worry about making it to Alexandra's high school graduation—but Mother had no doubts. She would be there with bells on.<p>

So, given her regular afternoon schedule, it shouldn't be a shocker what Alexandra's first word was.

Not Da-da.

Not Ma-ma (darn it).

Not even Gamma, Grandma or some other version of "grandmother."

While we were eating dinner and she was destroying (and eating) shreds of pot roast, potatoes and carrots, the doorbell rang and the dogs went berserk—and my angel daughter belted out her first and second words with singular clarity:

"Damned dogs!"

Since I actually _like_ the 'damned dogs,' it was someone else who needed to clean up his act.

As soon as he stopped laughing.


	9. True Terror Is To Wake Up One Morning

**True Terror Is To Wake Up One Morning And Discover Your High School Class Is Running The Country (Kurt Vonnegut**)

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><p>"Hello, Alexandra. My name is Miss Samantha."<p>

I held my breath as Lexi shook hands with the teacher. The hope-we-get-into-Bar-Harbor-Preschool teacher. (When did it start that you have to _apply_ to preschool? And an _intake interview_? No wonder the parents shooting for Yale in 16 years were having nervous breakdowns.)

Lexi shook hands gravely. "I am very pweased to meet you." (Sometimes she has trouble with her l's. Hard for a kid named _L_exi Cait_l_in Ma_ll_ard.)

"And I'm very pleased to meet _you_. Do you prefer Alexandra? Alex?"

"Lexi, if you don't mind." (She worked hard to get that L out. Gold star.)

Miss Samantha looked amused. "Such grownup manners! Would you like to play with the other children while I talk to your parents?"

Lexi smiled and skipped off to the center of the room where four other kids were playing. Around the room there were four other sets of parental units talking with four other teachers and administrators. We were being tested as much as the kids were.

We answered all manner of questions about Lexi, the family, the extended family, our routines—this was new to us, so we went with polite, honest, relaxed and—hard for both of us—not _too_ chatty.

My ears were accustomed to the collection of kids at the store, so I heard the beginning of a minor squabble before Ducky did. Two boys—and Lexi quickly chiming in.

"Why don't you share? Pway with it together?"

"I want it!"

"It's _mine_!"

"It's not yours, it's the schoow's," Lexi pointed out (quite reasonably).

"Mine!" The little boy in—god help him, a _three piece suit_—screamed and yanked at the truck another little boy was holding in a death grip.

"Why don't you take turns?" Lexi was still trying to be peacemaker.

"No!" they both shrieked.

Two sets of parents were trying to get up from the itty-bitty chairs. One mom was dressed in a short pencil skirt and stiletto heels—she was probably the mom of the Mini Mogul, and she was having a very hard time getting up from the chair. Mom #2 was more sensibly dressed in slacks and a sweater, but she was hesitating. Would running in to referee be seen as a caring parent—or helicopter mom? (Both dads were plainly thinking, 'ah, let 'em hash it out themselves'—but were still unsure if this, too, was appropriate.)

Problem solved. The kid in the blue and green checked shirt pulled the truck from Mini Mogul—and clonked him over the head with it. His scream hit about 500db, the two girls happily sharing Play-doh at the other table froze, and Mogul's mom _still_ couldn't get off the chair.

Lexi peered at the head of the howling boy and made a "tsk" noise. "Don't be a baby. It's just a superfishow scawp wound."

The worst part is—she hasn't gone with Ducky for "take your kid to work" day. Yet.


	10. Kids Will Drive You Crazy

**Kids Will Drive You Crazy (With Some, It's Just A Short Putt)**

* * *

><p>"Autopsy, Dr. Mallard speaking."<p>

"Ducky. My darling. My angel. My beloved. Would you pick up dinner on the way home?"

"I suppose," he laughed. "What would you like? And, more to the point… why take out?"

"Well—you know the old joke of, 'hey, mom, the airbags work!' being the comment you _really_ don't want to hear from your kid? Well, you don't want your spouse to say, 'glad you put the new fire extinguisher in the kitchen.'"

He gasped. "What happened?"

"Remember the roasted chicken and veggies from yesterday? When I took out the pan, it wobbled, and a bunch of juice and grease slopped out. I forgot to clean it last night—I put the stove on preheat without looking, and—"

"Grease fire in the oven. Did anyone get hurt?"

"Not a bit. The stove is even okay. I think. But clean up will be a pain, no way can I make pot pie—"

"I'll be glad to pick up dinner. Chinese?"

"Love it. Love you. Back to work I go…"

I hung up the phone and blew out a breath. Good thing I had been in the kitchen; if I had gone downstairs and started laundry, as I had planned to do… _Shudder_. Lexi had been sitting at the kitchen table, happily coloring away, and hadn't even turned a hair at the _whoosh_ of flames in the oven. I had grabbed the extinguisher and coated the oven before realizing she was still in the room.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Why do you caw Daddy 'Ducky?'"

"Because that's his name."

"Then why does Grandma caw him Donowd?"

The back door opened and Charlie came in. "Hi, Lex, hi, Aunt Sandy."

"Auntie Charwie!"

"Hey, Imp. Where's your mom?"

"Heading to the market. She forgot dessert at home." She sighed dramatically. "I have a _hideous_ amount of homework. Perhaps Uncle Ducky should hook me to an I.V. so I don't waste any time eating."

"He's bringing home Chinese…"

"Oh. Well. I guess a break would be beneficial…"

I grinned and started scrubbing at the mess in the stove.

"Mommy? You never answered me!"

"Hunh? Oh, I'm sorry, sweetie." I had to think for a minute. "Oh. Um. Well, Grandma calls Daddy Donald because that's his given name. I call him Ducky, because that's his nickname. Like your given name is Alexandra, but you like to be called Lexi."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you caw him _Ducky_?"

"I told you. That's his nickname. He likes to be called Ducky."

"But why is Donowd Ducky?"

"Oh. Well, our last name is Mallard. Among other things, a mallard is a type of duck. And you know Donald Duck, the cartoon?" She nodded. "So. Donald Duck. Donald Mallard. Ducky."

"Why?"

"Because… it's just a nickname."

"Why?"

"Because people thought it was funny."

"Why?"

"Because… sometimes people tease you about your name." _Which is why we didn't name you totally after your grandmother—Alexandria would be as bad as naming you Bethesda. Alexandra is, at least, one step removed._

"Why?"

"Because… sometimes they're trying to be mean. Sometimes they're trying to be funny."

"Why?"

"Because—because they just _are_."

"What are you doing?"

Change of topic. Thank god. "Cleaning the stove."

"Why?"

"Because—" I stopped and edited my comments. Carefully. "Because there was a little fire earlier, and there's a bit of a mess."

"Why?"

"Because the chemicals in the fire extinguisher leave a residue behind." I tried not to sound too irritated. A three-year-old can 'why?' you to death.

"Why was there a fire?"

"Last night some of the grease from the chicken spilled. Grease is flammable—that means it can catch fire. I forgot to clean up."

"Why?"

"Because I was doing twenty things at the same time and I _forgot_." _So, sue me_, I refrained from adding.

"Why?"

"Why was I doing twenty things at once?" I ground my teeth and scrubbed harder at the floor of the oven. "Because they _all_ have to be done, if you don't do them when they _need_ to be done they either pile up or get forgotten—and then _this_ happens—and there are only twenty-four hours in a day!"

"Why?"

I wanted to grab the phone and call my mother_. 'Mom? Thank you for letting me live to see five.' _"Because that's how long it takes the Earth to go around the sun." _Okay? Okay. Don't ask me any more. Do I look like Carl Sagan?_

There was a rustle at the table and a whisper I didn't catch. "Mommy?" she asked cautiously.

I stopped scrubbing. "Yes?" I tried not to sound guarded. Or pissed off. _It's not her fault she's three. It's not her fault she's curious. Would you rather have a dullard?_

"Wherefore?"

I winced and let my head fall forward to rest on the front edge of the stove. "_Charlie…!_"

Twin giggles were my only response.


	11. Money Can't Buy Happiness

**Money Can't Buy Happiness, But It Sure Makes Misery Easier To Live With**

* * *

><p>"You must be joking."<p>

"Is this the look of a woman who's joking?"

Ducky's eyes scanned the list I'd handed him. "She's going into kindergarten, not off to college!"

I laughed. "You packed crayons when you went off to college?"

He gave me an arch look. "Actually, yes," he retorted. "But more to the point: Armstrong is in an excellent school district, we pay a king's ransom in taxes—yet we have an entire _page_ of supplies to buy? For a _five-year old_?"

"Yeah, but—" I grabbed a couple of pads of primer paper and tossed them in the basket. "Don't you love the rush you get with new school supplies?"

"Dear—you're sniffing pencils," he laughed.

I took another whiff of the glorious scent of graphite and sharpened wood. "At least they're legal."

"_Mutter, darf ich bitte die pastelle_?"

Pastilles? Chocolate? I must not have heard it right. "Sweetie, I can follow you in French. Mostly. But I'm really bad at German." And the other half-dozen languages she chatters.

Lexi frowned. "Aunt Ziva says I need to work on my German."

"And that's fine when you're talking to Aunt Ziva. Or Daddy. But if you want me to follow along—"

She nodded patiently. Ziva had discovered early on that we (we!) had given birth to a walking UN. Even more than most kids, she soaks up languages like a sponge. (It's rough when she switches languages four times in the middle of a paragraph—or a sentence.) Ducky is fluent in French (among others) and I'm dragging back what I learned in high school, so Lexi gets the greatest practice in French. "_Puis-je avoir les pastels_?"

Ah. Pastels. "_Je suppose que oiu_."

Ducky looked from the sheet to the super-deluxe-jumbo-sized box of oil pastels to me. "It's not on the list," he teased.

"Sue me. I'm a sucker for art supplies." I took the box from Lexi and put it in the cart. "These stay home." Her brows knit. "Honey, all of the markers and pencils on the list will go in a big supply box. I'm willing to share a 99-cent pack of broad tip markers. Two or three, even. I am _not_ willing to share a thirteen-dollar box of oil pastels." I looked at the second box she was holding up and sighed. "Or a set of acrylic paints." She started to put it in the cart then looked at me, hesitating. "Go ahead," I said resignedly. I tried not to notice the set of Prismacolors that slipped in under the paint set.

"_Merci!_" She turned to head back to—undoubtedly—share the wealth some more. That's my girl, keeping the economy going.

"Do not move _one inch_ from Daddy's or my side. Understood?"

She looked almost offended. "You said if I stay within eyesight—" She pointed to the display of art supplies three feet away.

"Yeah, well, I figure 'within eyesight' just cost me at least twenty bucks per foot."

"You _could_ say no," Ducky offered. Lexi looked stricken.

"Yeah… says the man who went to Petsmart for cat treats—" Ducky winced. "And came home with two birds, a rabbit and a guinea pig!"

Lexi's eyes suddenly lit up. "_Vater_! _K__önnen wir __bekommen__ein frettchen_?"

From the look on her father's face... I was pretty sure I was better off _not_ getting a translation.


	12. We, The Unwilling, Led By The Unknowing

**We, The Unwilling,  
><strong>**Led By The Unknowing,  
><strong>**Are Doing The Impossible  
><strong>**For The Ungrateful.  
><strong>**We Have Done So Much  
><strong>**For So Long  
><strong>**With So Little,  
><strong>**We Are Now Capable  
><strong>**Of Doing Anything  
><strong>**With Nothing!**

* * *

><p>"Mrs. Mallard?"<p>

"Which one?" I juggled the phone while I dumped scoop after scoop of cake dough into paper cup-lined muffin wells.

"Alexandra's mother."

"You found her."

"This is Mrs. Packer."

Not the teacher. Packer, Packer— "Oh, yes! Stevie's mother." (All those years we spend being Charles and Victoria's son, Ray's kid sister, Ducky's wife, Lexi's father—you start to question your own identity after a while.)

"Yes. And Heather in the third grade. Please call me Wanda."

"Cassandra—or Sandy." Yea, we're our own people again!

"I was looking on my list, and I don't see your name marked off."

"Marked off? Off for _what_?"

"Volunteering in December."

_Dear god, what __now__?_ I wanted to whine. "Well, right now I'm baking six dozen cupcakes for the bake sale tomorrow, Monday I helped chaperone the field trip to the Lincoln Memorial, I'm co-room parent with Elyse Martindale, someone put my name on the textbook committee, I ended up secretary of the PTA—" (Stupid me, I ran out to the restroom at the wrong moment.) "—I just got my supply of wrapping paper fundraiser envelopes and I'm going to mark all the students' names on them to drop off with the cupcakes tomorrow—_and_ I'm trying to run a business at the same time. Volunteer for _what_ in December?" Isn't there anyone else in the room you can hit up? In the _school_?

"The first weekend in December is our Winter Carnival. Now, a lot of parents signed up last year because they knew they'd have at least one student at Armstrong. Of course we've lost parents whose students graduated and some who unexpectedly moved away—so we do need to fill those slots!" Her voice was way too perky.

"I'd love to, but—"

"You _do_ know that the state has cut the budget—"

I listened for a couple of paragraphs. When she finally took a breath, I said, "I understand, believe me—"

She kept going. "And the amount of personal money the teachers put into room supplies—"

Another breath; I tried again. "I really—"

"—science lab—"

"But—"

"—computers—"

"If I—"

"—active interest in their child's education—"

"No, no, I _do_—"

"—not even four hours of face painting, I just can't believe—"

"Maybe…"

"—expertise in books—"

"Well…"

Five minutes later I shoved three muffin tins in the oven and glared at my reflection in the window above the sink. "Thank you, Sally Spineless," I grumbled.

"Talking to yourself again?"

"As always," I sighed.

"Get a good answer?" Ducky slipped an arm about my waist and gave me a kiss on my temple.

"Not really. I broke the NAVY rule."

He looked puzzled. "NAVY rule?"

"NAVY—Never Again Volunteer Yourself."

"What now? Girl Scout leader? Soccer coach?" His tone was half amused, half exasperated.

"Lexi isn't interested in Scouts—yet—and I don't know rule one of soccer. No—Wanda Packer is co-chair of the Winter Carnival and she… kind of… talked… me… into… running the used books room."

Ducky sighed. "Cassandra—_no_. Enough. Kindergarten has been in session for, what—two and a half weeks? They already tapped you to chaperone a bus load of fifth graders—"

"That was only because Elyse's son is in the fifth grade and the other room mother was in the hospital with an emergency something-or-other being removed and she was desperate," I said in my defense.

"The point is, you do enough! _We_ do enough—though you do more than I, I readily admit. No. You've done enough for king and country—Wanda Packer needs to find someone else."

"I can't just _un_volunteer myself!" _Besides,_ I wanted to remind him, _you're the one who says our coat of arms should be crossed suckers on a field of guppies._

"You didn't volunteer in the first place," he retorted. "It sounds like you were all but shanghaied."

I loathed the idea of calling Wanda. I had a feeling she'd convince me to—oh, I don't know, come in as playground monitor or something. (Not unless she gives me a whip and a chair.) "I'll just rearrange a few things." (My mother said when we were young, she didn't have _time_ to sleep and when we were older, she didn't _dare_ sleep—so by the time we were out of the house she forgot _how_ to sleep.)

"Well, if you won't stand up for yourself, I will. You're spread too thin as it is!" With a kiss to my cheek and muttering about finding the parent handbook, he almost stalked off to his office.

Only moments later, Lexi hopped into the kitchen. Literally. She was imitating Harvey (what else would you name a white rabbit? (okay, I _did_ cast a vote for Jefferson—as in Airplane)), hopping a safe few feet in front of her grandmother. "Cup! Cakes! Ready! Yet?" she yelped in time to her hops.

"I just put them in the oven. I'll save some for our dessert, I promise."

"What's! For! Dinner?"

"Chicken stew."

"Yum! Mee!"

"Put the pogo stick away and set the table, please."

"I! Don't! Have! A! Pogo! Stick!" She didn't hesitate more than a nanosecond. "Mommy, what's a pogo stick? Can I have one?"

"_May_ I have one," I automatically corrected before realizing my second answer—"And, no."—should have been my first.

"Pleeeease?"

"You don't even know what it is, so why would you want one?"

"'cause it sounds fun!"

"Again—no. You are dangerous enough on feet and roller skates, I'm not adding another mechanical device into your bag of tricks." I pointed to the low cabinet that was always stocked with virtually unbreakable Corelle. "Table. Set it. Now, please."

"Felix the cat," she sang, hauling out tableware. "The wonderful, wonderful cat! Whenever he gets in a fix he reaches into his bag of tricks—"

Ah. Bag of tricks. Explained why she was pulling out the lyrics from a vintage 'toon they run on Saturday mornings.

Mother beamed at her. "You have _such_ a lovely voice!"

I love my daughter—but only a tiny minority of kids can sing well; 99.99% of the kids her age can sort of… barely… almost… carry a tune. Lexi is _not_ that missing .01%. But to a grandmother—ah, well.

Ducky slipped back into the kitchen and started whipping up his it-doesn't-have-a-name-my-god-it's-delicious salad dressing. (Only he can make it. I've tried a dozen times; it just doesn't taste right.) "You reach Wanda?"

"Ah—yes. Yes, I did."

"How'd it go?"

He looked disgruntled. "Well, between the cuts in the state budget and the increase in student load…" He sighed at my puzzled look. "I'm—I'm running the silent auction. She's emailing me a list of possible donors…"

I reached over to the smaller of the two cookie jars, pulled out a Dum Dum and handed it to him. "Fellow sucker—welcome to the club."

* * *

><p>AN: The title of this chapter, like all in this not-a-story, is from a button. This particular button was part of my contribution to the collection. Throughout my daughter's early school years I was the only one to run bake sales at her preschool/daycare. The other parents happily bought the wares, but, literally, I had ONE donation of goods to ONE bake sale. A bag of Oreos. (Pathetic.) My button-collecting friend—also my daughter's extended family aunt—cheerfully helped me make dozens of this and pounds of that for every holiday imaginable—and some "just because" sales, too. After one particularly grueling Xmas sale, she found this button and gave it to me in my Xmas card. (I'm sure that the Fairfax County schools don't have bake sales any more—a lot of schools don't for fear of lawsuits. Tough. In my universe, Victoria Mallard isn't dead and schools have bake sales.)


	13. Klingon Diplomatic Corps

**Klingon Diplomatic Corps**

* * *

><p>"My name is Marco Morelli."<p>

"Hi, Marco!" the other twenty-seven six-year-olds yelled. We were about halfway through the group.

"My name ith Trathy Thellerth."

"Hi, Tracy!"

("The thells thea thells by the thea thore," one little wit in the back row cracked. Jerk. Tracy gave him the faintest of disdainful looks and otherwise ignored him. Good; she has a tough hide.)

Another row of kids, including some we remembered from kindergarten. Stevie Packer (what would his mother sweet talk me into this year?), Peggy Martindale (her mom had already asked me to be co-room parent again) and Allie—Allie Something, among others.

"(unintelligible mumble)." This from the little girl in front of Lexi. New student; I didn't recognize her from last year, anyway.

"I'm sorry, dear, we couldn't hear you. Could you please speak up a bit?" the teacher, Mrs. Itami, said gently.

"My name is Melody Troutman." Barely audible.

"Haw! She's a fish!"

Melody's face crumpled. "Justin, one of our classroom rules is 'no teasing,'" Mrs. Itami said evenly.

Justin didn't apologize, and his smirk made it clear she was going to have her hands full with this one.

Lexi caught Melody's eye. "Recess? Cat's cradle?" she whispered. She pulled a Chinese jump rope an inch or so out of her jeans pocket. Melody's eyes brightened and she nodded. Mrs. Itami, meanwhile, had prompted the class and was rewarded with a chorus of, "Hi, Melody!"

Melody was followed by Mi Li, Jesus Yamamoto (Justin either didn't realize that 'Hay-soos' was spelled J-e-s-u-s—or he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Jesus was almost a head taller than most of the class and was solidly built; no video game flab on that kid. He could probably flatten anyone who gave him grief over his name or his heritage.), Phillip Eckles, Dawn Kellogg and a couple more I missed.

Last row, last two. "My name is Alexandra Mallard—"

Justin had been silent too long, "Haw, haw! A fish _and_ a duck!"

Lexi gave him a quirked eyebrow (learned that one from Aunt Abby) and didn't miss a beat. "But I prefer to be called Lexi." Her tiny "l" problem had disappeared by kindergarten. I kind of missed it.

"Hi, Lexi!"

"My name is Justin Kadarkaba," he said with a definite 'nobody dares make fun of _me_' look.

"Hi, Justin!"

"How rude," Lexi said at the same time. But it wasn't said to Justin specifically—nor was it said in a tone of dislike. Next to me I heard a quiet chuckle from my beloved husband.

Justin gave Lexi a baffled look. "Hunh?"

"Your name. It means 'how rude' in Turkish. Actually, how rude is _na kadar kaba_ but it's close enough I suppose."

I stifled a giggle of my own. Ziva had been informally teaching Lexi every language she could think of and, unbeknownst to me, had branched out to insults when Lex hit about four. She also taught her how to say "how rude" in each of those languages. When I objected, she pointed out that people can say nasty, rude things in very sweet tones, and it was helpful to know when someone was talking trash about you—and to have a relatively civil comeback. She had a point.

Justin continued to stare at Lexi. "You… speak _Turkish_?"

Lexi looked equally baffled. "Doesn't everyone?" (No, she knows fully well not everyone speaks Turkish. She was clearly yanking his chain.)

"You're _weird_." He took refuge in a sneer.

Lexi smiled sweetly. "_Und Sie sind__erbärmlich_."

Justin looked uncertain. "Uh—thanks?"

Ducky snorted faintly and leaned close to my ear. "She just said, 'you are pathetic,'" he translated in a murmur, knowing my German is sub-par.

_Thank you, Ziva..._

Of course, if real life is anything like a _For Better or For Worse_ comic strip (and it so often is!)... I just met my future son-in-law.


	14. Cats Don't Ask Cats Take

A/N: I warned you at the beginning that these stories could become quite random. We are about to jump back in time six years from the last tale… (From here on out I'll stick a date at the top so you don't get timeline whiplash.)

/ / / / /

**Cats Don't Ask. Cats Take.**

* * *

><p>I only have one sister-in-law—but she makes up in ability what she lacks in number.<p>

Before I knew I needed something—boom, there she was. When I started introducing Alexandra to baby food in jars—two (not one, _two_) baby food grinders arrived in the mail. Barb was obviously tracking them online, because as soon as I had signed for the box she called. "Trust me. Home cooking beats the crap in the jars any day. And while one is in the dishwasher, you can be using the other one." When Alexandra was at the middle stage—almost past a bottle but not quite at sippy cup ability—Barb stopped by the store and dropped off several cards of bottle straws. "Figure you'll need these soon." They were weird looking: a disk at the top that looked almost like a Tinkertoy wheel with a hard plastic straw that you could stick into the center hole. The disk fits into the nipple of the bottle and the straw sits squarely in the body of the bottle. Instead of the kid having to hold the bottle up and invert it (sometimes getting a bath of juice or water when the cap wasn't screwed on completely—oops), they can hold it like a regular cup with a straw. Ingenious.

Heck—before Alexandra was even born, she heard me say we planned to use "real" diapers and signed us up for diaper service ("Bad enough to haul them downstairs once, this saves you the trip to the basement.") and presented me with the coolest diaper holders. Yes, _holders_—fabric loincloth-type things: slip the diaper through the four cloth tabs in the corners and then Velcro the thing onto the kid. Yes, _Velcro_. I must have poked kids 100 times (and myself 1,000) while baby-sitting. Now? No pins. Even better than the throwaways. Now, _that_ is a major breakthrough. And, proving that she and my brother are perfectly suited to one another, she even found one made out of hemp and tie-dyed. (Old hippies never die. They just smell that way.)

But the best thing she brought by was a baby backpack. Not a backpack _for_ the baby—it was an aluminum frame with a canvas seat in it. It looked like the kind of backpack hikers use, had a special support for when the baby is small and still suffering from noodle neck, and would even support a kid up to toddler size. (By that point, I am not playing mama marsupial. Walk or use wheels, kiddo.) And as she grew, Alexandra got the grownups-eye-view of the world peering over my shoulder.

Occasionally it was a little disconcerting. Customers—new, old timers or those in between—would talk more to Alexandra than they would to me. It didn't bother me—I just felt like I was eavesdropping on a private conversation. Alexandra cooed and babbled right back, so they were clearly saying _something_ to each other.

The days she got out at noon, Charlie would jet over on the Metro to spend a couple of hours with us and then go "home" to Reston where her moms would join us for dinner and then schlep her home. It was a win-win situation: she got to see her favorite (and only) niece (frequently carrying her around the store in the aforementioned backpack) and she willingly did the shelf cleanup we all hated to do. When I realized she was actually working and not just visiting, I put her on the payroll. What did she do with her first paycheck? Blow it on Alexandra.

"Merry Christmas!" She was waiting for me when I got to the store.

"Charlie! How long have you been out here? What are you _doing_ here, for that matter! It's only eight, you should be in school!"

"Win. Ter. Break," she enunciated. "School is out of session for a fortnight. I _told_ you Saturday morning. And I've only been here ten minutes—at the outside."

"Well…"

"And I have your trees."

"Hot damn. I mean—good, good, thank you." At three months, Alexandra wouldn't pick up my bad language, but there was no need to burn Charlie's ears.

"Four dozen peanut butter, two dozen marshmallow, two dozen chocolate almond, one dozen fudge, three dozen chocolate mint. Hungry?"

"Har, har. You know the plan, get crackin'."

As she had the year before, Charlie taped sticks to the foil-wrapped trees and arranged them in the charity tree. I paid her school PTA for the goodies, then put them out for our charity of the month. Two chairites with one hit. Last couple of months had been the Salvation Army adopt-a-family program (she had helped us wrap and deliver the gifts over the weekend); this month was the local no-kill cat shelter. Come spring, they would be inundated with unwanted kittens and needed money _now_. The chocolate trees were a change of pace for our usual lollipops—and, if they sold like last year, would be gone in two days.

Charlie had the tree ready a half hour before we opened and came to my office to report in. "Here." She handed me a peanut butter tree. "I made the first donation. You need to keep your strength up."

I wanted to protest—but I couldn't. One, I _love_ Reese's peanut butter cups and the Christmas trees were almost that good. Two—Gibbs' warning in the hospital had been prophetic. Alexandra was already starting to crawl (Ducky couldn't be prouder if he were doing it himself); I was already tired and she hadn't even started to walk. "For that, we might send out for lunch." I opened it and took a nibble from the top of the tree. "Ah. Chocolate. Proof that mankind is civilized."

"Well, the Mayan _civilization_ practiced ritual sacrifice—"

I'm used to Ducky's tangents—sometimes gruesome ones—so I didn't lose my appetite. The back door slammed and moments later Valerie stuck her head in the door. "I have lunch," she announced. "The charity that picks up leftovers from The Soup Pot is not doing pickups this week, they're doing Christmas dinner pickups every day and are shorthanded, to boot. So we have beef barley, chicken noodle cream of mushroom, minestrone, chili, muffins of every hue _and_ chocolate chocolate chip cookies." She glanced at the tree in my hand. "Not that we need chocolate…"

"We _always_ need chocolate," I disagreed. "Tell your brother thanks."

She shrugged. "They'd've thrown it out anywho."

For the next minutes we discussed the options for the next summer's Book Expo. Running around a convention while pregnant 'out to here' is one thing; no way in blazes was I going to do it with a stroller or even the backpack. I would either leave Alexandra with her daddy (possible, though Ducky enjoys the Expo, too) a sitter (fat chance, even if Lily, Ev or Suzy) or send someone in my stead (better option). (Of course, by then Alexandra would be nine months old and I might be ready to run away from home. I remember what her cousins were like; there were times when I babysat that I wasn't 100% sure Ray and Barb were coming back.) Valerie listened intently while I outlined my plans. Very intently. Frankly, the way she was staring at me was a little unnerving. I had a feeling the baby was making goofy faces over my shoulder to distract her. (I could tell by the shift in weight that she was leaning forward over my right shoulder—and she is _such_ a ham.) Since Charlie was on the edge of her chair, staring just as fixedly, it was a safe bet the baby was entertaining her minions.

"The big trick is deciding—" My thought completely derailed itself. The hairs on my forearm were tickling—like when you get a small cut and don't realize it until a thin trail of blood snakes down your arm. I glanced over—

Just as I caught sight of Alexandra's face, Charlie and Valerie dissolved into whoops of laughter. "You had that tree sitting your hand, totally forgotten—" Valerie gasped.

"And she was leaning over soooooo slowly—" Charlie continued, giggling.

"And started going _num, num, num_ on the tree—"

"And you didn't pay any notice—"

"I thought I was going to die, watching, _waiting_ for you to say something—"

By now they were laughing so hard they had to support each other. I had been sitting in "discussion pose"—one arm across my body, hand supporting the other elbow, free hand available to gesture. Or, in this case, hold a big, fat chocolate covered peanut butter Christmas tree right within snagging range. I stared at the chocolate-covered, ecstatic face of my child, stunned; chocoholic—like mother, like daughter. Ignoring the sticky mess on the backpack, my shirt, my arm (and my desk, I belatedly noticed), I grabbed the phone. "Ducky? Ducky! _Alexandra just ate her first solid food!_ And she _stole_ it!"

Valerie composed herself enough to snap a picture with her cell phone and send it to Ducky. Ducky forwarded it and almost immediately heard back from the team. Tony planned to buy a share of Hershey's stock in Alexandra's name. McGee changed his screensaver to the close up view of ol' chocolate face. Ziva and Abby (Ziva being down in the lab with Abby when the email flag pinged) quickly came up with a cookie idea they planned to call Baby Chocolate Kisses. And Gibbs?

He just looked at the picture, grinned and shook his head. "That's my girl."

* * *

><p>AN: All four items (backpack, straws, diaper wraps and grinders) were gifts I received Way Back When. They have been mainstays of my baby shower gift list ever since.

A lot of these snippet tales have the sound of reality because they are stolen straight from family and friends. (It's not plagiarism. It's research.) This one I unabashedly claim as my own. It went on _ten minutes_ before I finally asked my friend what was so fascinating. (She had this look of amused horror and was clearly not listening to me.) When I followed her gaze, she started laughing so hard she literally slid off the couch. Her husband and kids had been watching from the other side of the room; hubby had to all but tackle the kids to keep them from spilling the beans.

And, yes… it was a Reese's cup.


	15. The Careful Application Of Terror

May, 2010

* * *

><p><strong>The Careful Application Of Terror Is Also A Form Of Communication<strong>

* * *

><p>"Have you seen my gray loafer?"<p>

"You mean… the one you're holding in your hand?"

Ducky looked exasperated. "No—the mate to this one."

"Try the closet?"

"Oh, _you're_ a lark. Yes, I tried the closet. That's where I found this one. I cannot find the mate—or the shoe tree for it, for that matter."

I didn't ask if he had put them away together. He's a neatnick. I have a better chance of seeing the sunrise in the west. "Well, it has to be here somewhere." I dropped to my knees and started crawling around, peering under the dresser, the bed— "For the love of Mike…"

"What?"

"Your loafer. The shoe tree. Allie's purple juice cup that's been missing for a month—"

I could hear him shudder. "Right into the bin is my vote."

"I second that. My phone charger! Dang it, I just bought a replacement!"

Ducky squatted down next to me as I continued to drag all sorts of things—dog toys, baby toys, a pair of black lace underwear, a medical journal (half of it, anyway), a desiccated grilled cheese sandwich half—from beneath the bed. "I haven't noticed any of the dogs playing fetch on their own…"

"And Foot would never do this. He'd make one of the dogs do it for him."

"I know it's not me, I'm sure it's not you, I'm equally sure it's not Suzy—"

"And Mother may do things that baffle us all, but she can't walk up the stairs without help any more."

"Which leaves… Alexandra?" Ducky said doubtfully.

"When she's not in her crib, she's with someone. Okay, I can see her tossing a toy or two under the bed while I'm folding laundry or something—but I'd notice if she had gone into your closet and nipped off with half a pair of shoes."

"I have to admit," he said slowly, "I've noticed the closet is a little… mussed, of late. Having listened to other parents, I figured this was just part and parcel of parenthood. But…"

"Okay—it's _not_ just me. I didn't say anything because I figured you were just adopting my slightly slobbish ways after all this time." We looked at each other uncertainly. "Allie?"

"Alexandra?"

We both looked toward our bedroom door; beyond that doorway lay her bedroom, where she was taking an afternoon nap (as was her grandmother, downstairs).

"Perhaps she's getting out of her crib…?"

"I wouldn't put it past her," I said. "Except that when I come back upstairs, she's always _in_ her crib. Unless you installed a transporter and didn't mention it—"

"It's on backorder, sorry," he shot back.

"Poltergeist?" I suggested.

He tiptoed over to Allie's room and carefully opened the door. Nap, hell. She was sitting up in her crib, holding a 'conversation' with her favorite soft doll we'd found on a trip through Pennsylvania last Christmas. She gave a happy gurgle when she spied us and scrambled to her feet, bouncing up and down on her mattress. "Well, that clears _you_."

"Da!" She held up her arms. "Awee oop!" She broke into peals of laughter.

"Allie-oop," he laughed. Ray had tagged her with that nickname early on. "Oof! You are getting big, young lady!"

She was only half out of the crib when she launched herself at him, flinging her arms around his neck. "_My_ Da!"

He hugged her. "Yes, it's Da, here to rescue you from baby jail. So." He looked at her sternly. "Are you Oliver Twist or are you Fagin?"

"Ducky!"

Allie just laughed at Ducky's stern voice. "Where gran'ma?"

"Grandma is downstairs. You ready to go for a walk with grandma?"

She nodded and bounced up and down in his arms. She wriggled around until he let her down then waddled over to her closet. "Choos!"

"Yes, shoes," I agreed.

She looked disgusted. "Choos!"

I realized she was holding out a sneaker and a sandal. Not shoes—_choose_. "Oh. The pink sneaks, definitely."

Ducky squatted down to help her put on the spangled sneakers. "Someone needs changing before she leaves," he murmured.

"That's a given."

As we made our way downstairs (Allie could do an on-all-fours walk upstairs in nothing flat; downstairs was harder), the topic of the black hole under the bed came back up. "There's only one logical suspect."

"True," I was forced to admit. "But, again—how?"

"Perhaps some undercover surveillance…"

Two days later he brought home an armful of electronics from work. "What's all this?"

"Transmitter. A nanny-cam, essentially, but we don't have to hide it since we aren't spying on someone old enough to notice. We can watch it real-time, on a monitor, or tape it for later viewing."

The first day: nothing. Second day: nothing. Third day: nothing.

Well—not nothing, technically. I discovered Ducky didn't resort to one of the dozens (and dozens) of books on the shelf; his pre-nap stories were "once, when I was in Peru" or "when your grandmother was a little girl." It was adorable.

"Weed me a stowee?"

"Yeppers." It was weird seeing myself on video; the voice didn't sound like my voice. Not what I think my voice sounds like, anyway. 'We' read an old favorite of mine, _The Last Little Cat_. I wasn't surprised to hear Ducky sniffling next to me while we watched the tape—I was wiping my eyes on the screen. We fast-forwarded through time; other than Allie flipping and wriggling around in the crib (she sleeps hard, but she covers abut 5 miles), nothing happened.

"This is crazy. Maybe we do have a poltergeist," I said.

"I'm starting to agree." Ducky reached over and flipped the switch to _live transmission_. We had left Allie about ten minutes before; she was still awake, one hand in the air, fingers opening and closing, thumb of the other hand stuck in her mouth. She rolled over and sat up, looking around. She even looked straight at the camera—even though I knew she didn't know what it was, I wanted to duck, as though she could look through the lens and see us. She stood up and walked back and forth the length of the crib, over and over.

"Isn't she a little young to be pacing?"

"She's not pacing…" he said slowly. He leaned forward. "She's… gathering."

He was right. She was collecting all of her stuffed animals—the armfuls in the crib, as opposed to the mountains next to her crib—and piling them in one corner. "Well, she insists on having so many in there. There's hardly any room for—oh, my god!"

We both leaped to our feet. It had taken her only seconds to act—after piling the toys up, jammed tightly in the corner, she scrambled up the mountain and, holding on to the railing of the crib, launched herself into space. She had obviously done this before; she was well-practiced at this gymnastics routine.

We had kept the spare bed in her room even though we had a brand spanking new official guest room at the other end of the hall. Charlie liked to sleep in the same room as Allie (if they had been sisters, I know that wouldn't have held true). So when Allie took a flying leap she landed safely on the spare bed. She was now scrambling off the bed and heading toward the door.

I've never seen Ducky move so fast—or so quietly. He was upstairs in a flash, and I was only half a step behind him. Allie's door was open—and so was ours.

We peered around the doorjamb. A couple of feet away Allie was standing in front of the dresser, on the top step of the two-step stepstool I needed to reach the top shelf in the closet. She had her arms out like a bird or a plane and was bobbing this way and that, chirping nonsense to herself and admiring her performance in the mirror.

She saw us. And froze.

You could almost see the thought bubble over her head. _Oh, crap! I am sooooo busted!_

She caught us by surprise. She jumped to the ground, sped past us and was at her door before we turned around. By the time we entered her room she had scrambled to the bookcase headboard of the spare bed and was—I barely managed not to scream—flinging herself back into her crib.

"Alex_an_dra!" I knew Ducky's face mirrored my own. Scared witless, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all—and impressed, too.

She stood up and held out her arms. "Da!" She clearly figured she could con us into believing she had been there the whole time.

With a rueful laugh he picked her up out of the crib. "Go get the toolbox," he said with a sigh. "We'll have it converted to a toddler bed by bedtime." He gave her a mock glare. "You monkey."

She scratched herself under her arms. "Ook!"


	16. If You Can Ask the Question

July, 2011

* * *

><p><strong>If You Can Ask the Question, You Deserve An Answer. Are You Sure You Want To Hear It?<strong>

* * *

><p>"Mommy, do you want some tea?"<p>

"Uh-huh," I said absently. I was, I admit, paying more attention to the contract I was reading for the fourth time. Ray had taught me don't sign anything without reading it through at least twice. Sleep on it. Read it through one or two days later. If it _still_ sounds good—ask your lawyer what you're missing.

So when the tiny china cup and saucer appeared at my elbow, it took me a second to regroup. "Oh, thank you, sweetie." I actually expected tea, since Suzy was in the kitchen getting Mother's tea ready. Alas, it was just water. Nice and cool, though. "Thank you. That was lovely."

"You're wewcome. Do you want some more?" she asked hopefully.

"Sure."

The front door opened and she streaked from the room, screeching, "Daddy!" in a pitch that threatened to shatter glass. Moments later, Ducky—home early because of a dentist appointment—was being led/dragged into the room by a chattering Lexi. She was doing a recap of all that had happened at school that day (I had heard it all on the way home from preschool). He listened attentively, supplied appropriate comments of surprise, astonishment, approval and amusement. When she wound up with, "I'm making Mommy tea do you want some, too?" he agreed that that would be delightful. "Would you like me to help?"

She looked almost horrified at the idea. "No! I can do it _for_ you!"

"Oh—well, thank you _very_ much," he said gravely, sitting on the couch.

"How dare you stand in the way of her desire to serve," I teased when she was out of earshot.

"My error." He was very appreciative when she returned with the teacup and saucer with tiny, pink dancing mice on them (a Christmas gift from Uncle Jethro the last year). She grabbed my set and scurried from the room. "Will she _truly_ become a sullen, monstrous brat when she's a teenager?" he asked sadly.

"Probably not that bad," I reassured him. "Thank you, Lexi." I sipped my 'tea.' "This is _excellent_ tea."

"More? More?"

She ran back and forth out of the room, first one then the other. She was dashing back for my eighth or ninth cup when Ducky stopped, cup halfway to his lips. "What's wrong?"

He looked down at the tiny cup, brow furrowed. "How tall is Lexi?"

I laughed. He knows darn well how tall she is. "Yea tall," I gestured.

"Can she… _reach_… the sink tap?"

No, she couldn't. Realizing the only water source she could reach… As one we ran to the bathroom off of Mother's room; empty. We ran down the hall toward the other bathroom but stopped when we heard voices in the kitchen.

"Another pitcher of water?" A laugh from Suzy. "You're going to float out to sea!"

"It's not water! It's tea!" Lexi protested. "Mommy and Daddy are _very_ thirsty."

Not to mention very relieved…


	17. Rules, Schmules

Spring, 2014

* * *

><p><strong>Rules, Schmules<br>(or)  
>Screw The Prime Directive, Let's Go Kill Somthing<strong>

* * *

><p>When Lexi was born, I hadn't argued when Ducky broached the subject of having her christened. I grew up nominally Episcopalian (which made it easier to be in Fr. Parker's good graces when we got married—at least I <em>started<em> on the right path), but as life went on I became more and more distanced from the rituals, particularly baptism. I always kind of felt it wasn't fair to make that decision for a kid—but, at the same time, it wouldn't hurt (not like a botched circumcision would!). So I said yeah, sure, we had the little ceremony and a big party at the house afterward.

Ducky tried taking Lexi to church a few times and discovered that keeping a squirmy infant occupied during Sunday service is easier than it sounds. Fr. Parker told Ducky he could take Lexi to the nursery—well, heck, if he's going to do that, he may as well leave her home with Mommy (who said, 'thanks, pass' when he suggested I join them). So Lexi stayed home, Daddy went to services 4 or 5 times a year and we all got along just fine.

When Lexi entered kindergarten, Ducky gave it another try. Lexi went to Sunday School, Daddy went to services, and Mommy stayed home with Grandma. (Keeping Mother in line is harder than Lexi had been. Ducky wasn't fool enough to take her with him.) Since it was fairly laid-back and nothing like—well, like the Kemmelbachers' former church, for example, I had no objections to Lexi going in. With the "responsibility" of bringing Lexi to church, Ducky started going once, twice, sometimes even three times a month. And if Ev, Lily and Charlie had spent the weekend, I'd sometimes even wander in with Ducky, earning me a good-natured wink and nod from Fr. Parker. (If it was Fr. Knowles, I got the baffled "who are you?" stare and a pleasant smile. I try to avoid Fr. Knowles, who usually does the 0600 service and is known to many as Fr. Doesn't-Shut-Up; when he fills in for Fr. Parker at the 1030 service, I've seen people come in, see his name on the listing and give a 'dang, I can't turn around and leave' sigh.)

One Sunday, with Easter barely a month away, while we were leaving and shaking hands all around, Fr. Parker leaned over and murmured a request that if we could spare a few minutes, could we meet in his office? We said sure, wandered over to the church office and wondered what the heck was going on. (I hoped we weren't getting roped into running the church bazaar.)

Fr. Parker joined us a few minutes later and, instead of sitting behind his desk, dragged over a third chair to our two. (Ducky told me before Fr. Knowles joined the staff, Fr. Parker was "Father Jim." With two Jameses, both usually called Jim, they went to last names to lessen the confusion. This Father Jim would be perfect casting for an Agatha Christie mystery. A little on the round side, mostly bald but with stray bits of short white hair and what can only be described as "laughing" green eyes. Nice. Approachable. Even when officiating at a funeral, I'm sure the lowest wattage those eyes can manage would be "caring.") "So. It's been aboot six years since ah marred you two, haven't killed each other, yet, good, eh?" (He also has a sometimes-odd sense of humor and came to us from Scotland—after a fifteen-year stopover in Canada. Half the fun of his sermon is translation of the warring accents.)

"She locks up the knives," Ducky deadpanned.

I gave him a friendly glower and Fr. Parker laughed. "An' well y'should, with a wee bit running in and out. And such a darling she is!"

Ducky and I exchanged a look. Fr. Parker's eyes were glinting with repressed humor, like he knew the punch line of a particularly good joke. Great. What has our little terrorist done now?

"I didn't get a chance to talk to Mrs. Taylor until this morning, but last Sunday the lesson was on 'the golden rule.'" He looked at us expectantly.

I did what I often do when confronted with a sudden test: panic. "Uh—whoever has the gold makes the rules?"

Ducky rolled his eyes slightly but Fr. Parker laughed. "We wait until they're in the high school class to teach them that one. 'Do unto others—'" He nodded and waved his hand instead of finishing the adage.

"Oh, _that_ one." (Fr. Parker is the sort of minister you can say that to. Fr. Knowles is the new generation, a VSM—Very Serious Minister. Two years at this parish and he still hasn't caught on.)

"So-o-o-o, Mrs. Taylor was going around the circle, asking for other rules that make life better. She heard, 'don't fight with your brother,' 'go to bed when your parents tell you to,' 'don't steal,' 'don't swear at a cop because that makes the ticket more expensive—'"

I tried not to snicker and failed. So did Ducky. At least we knew Lexi hadn't popped out that one, since my last ticket was years before I even met Ducky—and as far as I know, he has never had even one.

"'Return your library books on time,' 'don't borrow money—'" The eyes were _definitely_ laughing. And he was grinning. "Alexandra's rule was, 'don't mess with a Marine's coffee if you want to live.'"

I clapped a hand over my mouth and heard a faint groan from Ducky. "Gibbs," we said in unison.

"Mrs. Taylor didn't quite know what to say. Alexandra probably felt she had given a wrong answer, so she changed it to, 'never go anywhere without your knife,'" he chuckled.

I figured that was Ziva's contribution, but no. Ducky just half-groaned, "_Gibbs_…" again.

"Then, 'if it seems like someone is out to get you—they are.'"

"Even paranoids have enemies," I said half-defensively.

"Next she tried, 'never leave suspects alone together.' Mrs. Taylor was so stunned, she couldn't say anything. Alexandra was almost desperate—" He was trying to contain his laughter and was failing. "'Never involve lawyers'—can't argue with that one m'self." He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. He was pulling a Santa Claus, quaking with laughter like a bowl full of jelly. "She made one last-ditch attempt before Mrs. Taylor went on to other things." He pulled himself together—mostly. Mouth still twitching, he solemnly said, "'Never screw over your partner.'"

Ducky dropped his face in his hands. "Well," I said. "That _is_ the golden rule…" I looked at my husband, shaking his head in disbelief. "Just… Jethro Gibbs' version."


	18. Pardon My Eccentricities

A/N: My heavens. I see people stopping by left and right in my stats, but only a few comments... I'll just trust you're silently enjoying, since the numbers are staying up there!

* * *

><p>September, 2013<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Pardon My Eccentricities And I'll Excuse Your Lack Of Aesthetics<strong>

* * *

><p>Ducky and I decided early on that we were not going to have a cookie cutter child. Things that were important—a reasonably healthy food intake, sleep, proper behavior—those were the sticking points. Just because "every" child was wearing Cute Tush jeans, our kid didn't have to. Just because "every" child has a Playstation 2 or 5 or 600 or whatever number they're up to, our kid doesn't have to. (She'll play more than enough video games visiting Uncle Tim or Aunt Abby—or Aunt Charlie, for that matter.) So, at the age of three, when she saw <em>Little House on the Prairie<em> reruns and fell in love with the prairie dresses the girls wore, I had no problem letting her run around in them after preschool and on the weekends. (She was all for wearing them to school until I pointed out that pants were more sensible for the monkey bars and swings.) And when she saw _Babe_ and decided to be a vegetarian, Ducky made sure her list of foods was balanced for proteins and carbs and vitamins and minerals—and I told her that, yes, I would make non-meat things for her but the rest of us wouldn't give up our burgers. It lasted almost two weeks, until Suzy made ribs for dinner. _Nobody_ can resist her ribs.

Then there was the discovery of Cookie Monster. The fact that her father and I both love to bake, that her grandmother does pretty well in the kitchen (with _close_ supervision) and most of her extended family is handy with a cookie sheet (Gibbs being the lone holdout—but he is unsurpassed as the grill master, so we don't say he's lacking), she was born loving cookies and baking just like she was born loving books. It's in the DNA. So a character that scarfed cookies day and night was easy to love. Tons of her clothing had the blue critter emblazoned on them—but her favorite was a tie-dyed shirt with Mr. Monster on the front and "I'm a cookie monster!" on the back. When I say favorite, I mean _favorite._ She wore it every day. Literally. I peeled it from her body every bedtime, washed it that night and had it ready for when she leaped from bed at 0600. (When we realized she was never going to part company with this shirt, Ducky and I tried to buy a second or third. Fat chance. See it now, like it now, buy it now.) Mom taught me to buy Lexi's clothes larger than what she was wearing, so as to get more than a week's wear out of it. So she was two and a half when we bought the shirt, but was still able to squeeze into it at five. It was faded, the hem and the sleeves rode higher than intended and the body was stretched tight across her tummy—but she could still get into it.

Five.

As we went from store to store, collecting school supplies and new clothes, it tapped me on the shoulder every so often. _My baby is five. She's going into kindergarten, her first year of 'real' school. Five. Next year is first grade, a few years later, middle school, then high school, then college…_

"Are you sure?"

She nodded enthusiastically, pigtails ("Just wike Auntie Abby's!" she insisted that morning) bouncing around.

I tried not to wince. Individuality. Independence. Freedom. But… "Wouldn't you rather—"

He brow furrowed. "You _promised_…"

I sighed. True; I promised. "Okey-dokey. Special breakfast will be waiting, special for the first day of school."

"Pancakes?"

"Yep."

"An' bacon?"

"Yep."

"Smiwey face pancakes?"

I laughed. Ducky had created smiley face pancakes, a smile and two eyes of egg and a face of pancake batter, and it was Lexi's favorite treat. They were a little time consuming, so we save them for special occasions—like the first day of kindergarten. "Yep. Smiley face pancakes, Daddy is working on them right now."

"Yea!" She clapped her hands and jumped up and down.

"So get dressed and hurry downstairs. What do you want for snack time?"

She thought for a minute. "Appow juice. Cewery and peanut butter. Raspberry yogurt. Oreos."

I shook my head. "Sorry, kiddo. No cookies or candy allowed. You can have Oreos with Grandma, for tea."

"Okay. Graham crackers?"

"Those are allowed. Anything else?"

"Cheese sticks and an orange?"

"You got it." And she'd eat every bite. The kid was on an eating jag; it meant she was due for a growth spurt. "Hurry scurry. What time is breakfast?"

"Wittle hand on the six, big hand on the nine." She thought for a moment. "Six-forty-five!"

"A-plus."

Ducky was carefully pouring batter over bits of egg. "Nervous?"

"Lexi? Heck, no."

"I meant _you_."

"I, _Doctor_ Mallard, am just fine." I started pulling snack things out for the waiting lunchbox. Frozen juice box (does double duty as an ice insert), cheese, orange… "By the way, she's wearing _special_ clothing for the first day of school. Good luck clothing. So—don't mention it, okay?"

When she burst into the kitchen, all he said was, "Your hair looks wonderful like that. Aunt Abby would be flattered."

Mother had her neurons collected enough to say, "My baby is going off to school! Such a big girl you've become." She hugged Lexi so long that I wasn't sure she'd let go. "Tell me everything at tea."

"I'w make notes," Lexi said solemnly. She probably would.

We drove over together in the van. When Lexi heard that the school offered before-school time to color or play or read, she begged us to sign her up. Who knows, they might have books she'd never seen before!

We'd met the teacher, Miss Westerna, during the kindergarten roundup. She was fresh out of college, brand new to the teaching arena. I hope she fared better than I did.

Lexi remembered where her cubby was and neatly set her lunchbox and backpack inside. (Backpack! _Backpack_! I didn't get a backpack until I was in _college_, for crying out loud!) "Hewwo, Miss Westerna!" she chirped.

"Oh, Lexi! Look at you!" The teacher squatted in front of Lexi and I held my breath. "You look _wonderful_. I'll bet you chose everything specially for today."

I looked over the two sizes too small, battered Cookie Monster t-shirt, Han Solo vest, red sparkly Wizard of Oz shoes, purple jeans and the belt from one of her grandmother's dancing frocks from the 50s.

"I did! I chose it aw _mysewf_!"

Miss Westerna looked up at me and I could see the smile in her eyes. "I was pretty sure you had."


	19. I Like You

September, 2011

* * *

><p><strong>I Like You—You're A Bad Influence<strong>

* * *

><p>Even though Suzy frequently told me it was fine to leave Lexi with her while I did errands, I rarely took her up on it. I didn't want to abuse her goodwill plus she was being paid to watch Mother (who, at 103, was getting more difficult to care for), not to be our personal attendant. But once in a while I would avail myself of her assistance.<p>

Bar Harbor has monthly parent meetings. (You collect artwork on a daily basis, though. Boy, it piles up.) While Lexi finished her lunch on the patio, I had a quick confab with her teacher. Net result: Lexi was doing very well with anything in the arts and crafts area. She was quick with her math manipulatives—but still had a problem with raising her hand and waiting her turn to talk. "Of course, that's the number one problem we have with most of the kids," she laughed and I felt 100% better. She was head of the class in reading and part of the "reader bees" group that helped those who were still struggling (though she still liked to have a story read to her at bedtime). "The biggest problem she has is that we often don't understand her."

"Well, her 'l' impediment is getting better, we decided not to go with speech therapy—"

"Oh, no, not that. It's just that your daughter changes languages the way some kids change the rules in hopscotch. Frequently. And without warning."

I sighed. "I'm sorry. We're trying to break her of that. She doesn't know the rules of language for anything she speaks—even English—but she's picked up huge chunks from a couple of friends of ours." Uncle Jethro has a number of words and phrases from several languages, Daddy has the weirdest assortment in his repertoire and Aunt Ziva—well, she's a class unto herself. "The problem is, she'll be happily chatting away in French or German or Hebrew and the sentence runs into a word she doesn't know in _that_ language so she'll stick one in in Italian or Farsi or Pig Latin for all I know."

"We've noticed. The good part is, the other kids are picking it up, too."

I tried not to wince. I had witnessed a major squabble between Ziva and Tony DiNozzo. I hadn't understood a word she said, but Ducky had. And he had been impressed with her creativity.

"Just a couple of reminders. Halloween is coming up—we'll be having a Halloween party and are looking for volunteers to bring treats and help ride herd on the crowd. Other than that, trick or treat candy is _not_ to be brought to school in lunchboxes. Same for Christmas, Valentine's, Easter, whatever."

"I thought the school rules said 'no candy in lunchboxes' _period_."

"Yes—but it's amazing how parents 'forget' when faced with a four year old screaming over a Snickers bar from a plastic pumpkin."

"True."

I signed up to bring Halloween themed cookies for the party, corralled Lexi and went on our merry way.

First stop: library. Exchange her books, exchange my books, and check out a couple of novels for Victoria.

Second stop: Hancock Fabrics. After a month of dithering, Lexi had settled on being Violet from _The Incredibles_. _**Yes!**_ Red leotard and tights would take care of 75% of the costume. The bad news? She wanted _me_ to go along as Helen/Elastigirl. I tried to convince her that Halloween was for _children_ to be dressed up; no soap, thanks to Abby and Ziva dressing up and escorting her last year. Oh, well; even if I have to dress up, I'm still getting off pretty easily, sewing-wise. I probably won't be so lucky next year.

Third stop: the supermarket.

Fourth stop: the booby hatch.

Let me backtrack…

The market wasn't very crowded when we arrived. The morning shoppers were gone, and the let's-stop-on-the-way-home-from-work crowd had yet to leave work. Nice. We whipped through the interior aisles first, then the produce, bakery, frozen, dairy and—oh, damn it, I forgot graham crackers. Aisle 8…

…which also holds the toys.

"Mom! Buy me that!"

I was surprised to say the least. Unpleasantly so. We had reinforced over the years to ask for and get recognition before proceeding with a question—so that you knew you had the person's attention. (This was especially critical with her grandmother.) (We were still working on "don't run up and interrupt a conversation.") No, 'Mom?' followed by 'Yes, dear?'' And then a demand, not a request? This was not normal for my daughter.

On top of that, what she was asking for—a dress up set—she had eight or ten times over at home. And better quality. This kit was plastic, net, a handful of sequins and some glitter. Worth a buck and selling for fifteen. Ignoring the lack of social graces for the moment I said, "No, not today, Lexi."

That surprised her for a second. Then her brows lowered and her mouth set in a hard line. "I _want_ it! Buy it for me! Buy it, _buy_ it—_now_!"

My jaw actually fell open. _Who are you? Where is my child?_ "Alexandra Mallard," I said sharply. "This is _unacceptable._ Where—"

"Now-w-w-w!" she howled. Then she screamed, a screech of pure rage, and—holy crap!—threw herself on the floor and began drumming her feet and fists, crying and shrieking the whole time.

By now I was redder than the tomatoes in the top basket. I reached down and grabbed her arm. "Stand. Up. _Now_," I ordered. She tried to pull away; I caught both arms and forced her to stand up, then leaned down until we were almost nose-to-nose. "This stops _now_, young lady, or we will leave the store. Immediately."

"I—_want_—it!"

Fine. You just made your choice. Propelling her along (with several stops along the way to fling herself on the floor again), we made our laborious way to the customer service desk.

It wasn't hard to catch the eye of the manager. "I _do_ apologize," I said in a grim tone. "But would you be so kind as to put my cart in the cold room in back? I'll be back within fifteen or twenty minutes to collect my groceries. It seems my daughter has left her manners at home and needs to go back to be with them."

"Certainly!" He almost literally leaped at the chance. "I'll put your frozen items in a bag in the freezer."

"Thank you. The name is Mallard."

Lexi was stunned by the change of plans. "No! No! I want to go shopping!"

"If you don't use manners when you go out, you don't get to _go_ out," I said firmly, leading/dragging her to the van.

"No! It's not _fair_!"

"Misbehaving in public is not fair—to everyone else. Misbehaving in public is rude. Tantrums are _not_ acceptable behavior," I managed to get out around wrestling her into her booster seat.

"_No-o-o-o-o-o_! I'w be good—I'w—" It looked like she was sifting through mental post it notes. "If you buy it, I'w be good!"

I couldn't stop the sarcastic laugh. "Oh, _no_. Not a chance. That is _not_ how it works, young lady. Blackmail doesn't happen on my watch any more than giving in to a tantrum in the middle of the market will!"

It was an unpleasant ride home.

Mother was delighted to see us. She was understandably upset when I said that, no, Lexi couldn't stay downstairs and play. (I think Mother was being punished more than Lexi was.) "Lexi needs to sit in her room until I come home and think about what just happened." (If I'm lucky, she'll devote two minutes to thinking and the other twenty-eight to reading.) "Sorry," I muttered to Suzy as Lexi stomped up to her room.

"Been there, done that, wrote the book—several times," she said with a rueful laugh. "I'll keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn't burn down the house. And keep Victoria distracted while Lexi is in solitary confinement."

"Does this get easier?" I asked hopefully.

"Nope."

"Gee. Thanks."

I ducked back to the store. The manager took me aside and—making me feel _much_ better—_thanked_ me for dealing with the situation as I had. "I can understand that parents sometimes _have_ to bring children along when they shop, but—" The rest was left unsaid. (He didn't _have_ to say anything.) He had tallied the groceries, so it was a matter of slide the card and go back home—bringing a half-dozen roses with me as a thank you.

Lexi was still in her room when I got home and, yes, she had totally forgotten about what had happened. Attention span of a gnat, like most kids her age. I decided to defer the discussion until after dinnertime, when Ducky and I could present a united front. Instead, I said, "Grandma is getting ready for her afternoon walk, are you going with her?"

"Yes! Yes, yes, yes!" She literally skipped out of the room in time to her yeses.

I bit my tongue to keep from saying, 'Now, _that's_ the little girl who lives in this house.' No sense in stoking the fire again.

I snagged Ducky when he got home; we had a quick confab in the kitchen and decided the three of us would have a 'discussion' after bath and jammies time.

Suzy had long ago started staying through dinner—one, to help Mother, two, who turns down a free dinner? (Sometimes she even cooked.) She often stuck around for post-dinner games before heading home. So we played a few hands of Crazy Eights; Lexi gave Suzy and Grandma hugs and kisses and I took her upstairs for her bath and let her choose the jammies d'jour (a riot of giant daisies in colors not usually found in nature). Then it was time for… _the_ _inquisition_.

To make it less threatening, Lexi sat in bed and we each sat beside her—Ducky on the left, I on the right—the way we always do for bedtime story.

Ducky didn't open _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_, which we in the middle of reading. And he didn't tap dance around the subject. "Mommy told me what happened at the market today." Lexi looked puzzled; she truly _had_ forgotten. "You saw a toy you wanted and you asked Mommy to purchase it." (_Demanded_, Daddy, if you want to be accurate.) "And when Mommy said no—" Her face was starting to crease. "You had a bit of a temper tantrum." His voice wasn't accusatory—it was matter-of-fact and, actually, quite gentle. "What did you hope to accomplish by that?"

We'd vowed from before she was born that we wouldn't talk down to Lexi—but from her silence I wondered if 'accomplish' wasn't nailed down in the Lexi lexicon. Then she shrugged. "I dunno," she mumbled, staring at the quilt.

"Well, _we_ certainly don't know." He tipped her chin up so she was looking at him. "This is _very_ unlike you, Alexandra. Let's go through this step-by-step. All right. You're at the market and you see this—what was it?" he asked in an undertone.

"Dress up kit," I supplied in a similar tone.

"Dress up kit. What did you think?"

"It's… pretty."

"And you wanted it?"

She nodded.

"And you asked Mommy for it?"

She nodded again.

"Actually—" I was shooting for his tone of voice. "You didn't _ask_. You _demanded_."

Ducky gave her a look that was a little shocked, a little disappointed. "Oh, _my_…"

Lexi shifted uncomfortably.

"And then what happened?" he prompted.

"Mommy said _no_." She pouted slightly. But she was looking a little guilty, too.

"Now, why… did Mommy say no?"

From her look, she thought I said no to ruin her life. "I dunno."

"Maybe you should _ask_ her."

Reluctantly: "Why did you say no?"

"Well—one, you have a ton of dress up things, including beautiful, old dresses of grandma's, things Aunt Abby's friends have made or given you, plus things we've bought. This wasn't anything special or unique. It was also very poorly made—it would have fallen apart pretty quickly. But even it if had been handmade, perfect, one-of-a-kind—when you ask for something, you _ask_. You don't say 'get me' or 'give me' or 'buy me.' And you _definitely_ don't say, 'if you buy me this thing, I'll behave.'" (Plenty of time later for her to discover that's the way of politics and law and order.)

"Wherever did you get the idea that throwing a tantrum will convince Mommy—or me—to buy you something?"

She was at war with herself for a minute or two. Finally, reluctantly, she said, "Wewh… Windsay said—"

Ducky and I exchanged a look over her head. 'Lindsay said.' The sage of the age. A spoiled brat, a bit of a bully, but able to get the kids to follow her lead just by crooking her finger.

"And because this 'always works' for Lindsay, you thought you'd give it a try," Ducky supplied when she finished her stop and start tale of Lindsay and—you have _got_ to be kidding me!—her new cell phone. (Who in their right minds buys a three—pardon me, _four_-year-old a cell phone? Strike that. Lindsay's parents were in the middle of a loud, messy, expensive divorce. They weren't _in_ their right minds, which is why the school was asking everyone to be understanding about the situation.)

Lexi nodded.

"Sweetie… do you like to play with Lindsay?" I asked. She nodded, but with a bit of a frown. "You've told me that sometimes she can be bossy. Mean. Kind of bratty." Small nod. "And she's not much fun to play with when she does that. Is she?" Headshake. "That's like when we go shopping. It's fun to go shopping with you." (Well, comparatively speaking.) "Like—figuring out which is a better buy." (It will be faster when she gets to multiplication and division.) "Or when we buy a roast, playing the what-comes-next-leftover game."

She nodded, smiling widely. "Pot roast. Then hot sammies. Then beef stew. Then pot pie!"

"Excellent. And finding special treats for Grandma, for her afternoon tea." She grinned and nodded. "But… today wasn't fun when we went shopping. It's like when you and the girls were playing circus and Lindsay came over, started bossing everyone around… and finally nobody wanted to play? That's how _I_ felt when you acted the way you did this afternoon."

She threw her arms around me and burrowed into me. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"That's all I need to hear." I gave her a hard hug—and then another one.

We wriggled around so she was on my lap, leaning against me and I was leaning against Ducky. Mallards nested together, if you'll forgive the pun. "Why is Windsay mean sometimes?"

I sighed and Ducky reached over to stroke her hair. "You know sometimes Lindsay goes home to stay with her father and sometimes she goes home with her mother?" Lexi nodded. "Well… that's because they're getting a divorce." She nodded; with Uncle Jethro in the family, she understands the word 'divorce.' "Well, her parents are fighting. Quite a lot. And that leaves no time or attention for Lindsay. She's found that she can't get attention by being good… so she gets their attention by being bad."

"So… I shouwd tewh her I won't pway with her if she's mean?"

Cut to the chase. Ducky sighed. "Well… that might make her defensive. It might hurt her feelings," he clarified.

"But she hurts _my_ feewings."

"I know, sweetie." I kissed the top of her head. "You remember when we were training Harvey to use his litter box?" She nodded. "When he did what he was supposed to, we praised him and gave him treats. When he didn't, we gave him a little scold. Eventually, he always used the litter pan and we never had to scold him again." She nodded again. "Well… if Lindsay is nice when she asks to play, say yes. Reward her. If she's mean, or bossy, say no. But you can say no politely."

"No, thank you."

"Very good. You can even say, 'no, thank you, maybe later' so she doesn't feel quite so pushed away. Maybe we can train her to be nicer, like we trained Harvey."

"I'w try."

"That's my girl." I gave her a hug. "Time for bedtime story."

As she settled into her bed, she looked serious. "Shouwd I _ask_ Windsay to pway with us?"

"That would be _very_ nice."

"No more tantrums?" Ducky asked as he opened the book.

She nodded. "I promise." She held up her pinky. "Pinky swear."

The three of us hooked pinkies. "Pinky swear," Ducky and I said together.

To make the evening end on a pleasant note he read not one but two chapters. Hugs, kisses and Foot taking his place on the rug next to her bed, and Ducky and I slipped from the room.

"Poor Lexi," I sighed, plopping down on our bed. "I never had to deal with schoolyard bullies at three."

"Poor Lexi," Ducky sighed in agreement. He caught my eye; his gaze was sad and thoughtful. "Poor _Lindsay_."

Would it be too much to ask if he could buy a remote island and we could run away…?


	20. If You Think I'm Strange You Should See

November 2008

* * *

><p><strong>If You Think I'm Strange You Should Meet My Parents<strong>

Before Alexandra was even born, Ducky and I discussed stay-at-home vs. working parenthood long and hard—for both Mom _and_ Dad. There's a big advantage to owning your own business, particularly something as casual as a bookstore: you get to make the rules. (Well… most of them.) It was a snap to take Alexandra to work, set up a corner of the office as a baby's room and set her there while she was asleep and carry her around the store when she wasn't. Couldn't pull that off at 'thank you for calling customer service, how would you like to verbally bash me?' now could I? As for Ducky taking her to work—ha! (Though I think there would be plenty of sitters around.)

He more than made up for his daytime lack of hours by taking care of the baby a _lot_ once we got home. He was even very good about changing diapers—and not the slapdash way I've seen some fathers do. (At Toys R Us I saw one poor kid sporting a disposable diaper that had been screwed up—the sticky tab had stuck to the wrong place and tore a big hole out the outside plastic. Dad had fixed it with—how MacGyverish!—duct tape.) Ducky came into fatherhood late in life, but he could sure give lessons to a lot of those 'baby daddies' out there.

To make things easy on all of us, we parked a portacrib in the living room so we didn't have to run up and down the stairs all evening and Alexandra was able to stay in the thick of things. (We did move the Oriental rugs to the attic until she was a little older.) We swapped out dinner duty—since I got home first, I did it about 50% of the time, Ducky another 35% and the remaining 15% was divvied between Lily and Suzy. Whoever was cooking could easily run back and forth between kitchen and living room—but there was usually a responsible person with the baby at all times. (I'd say responsible adult, but I want to include Charlie… and sometimes exclude Mother.)

Even knowing someone was with Alexandra, I ducked in and out regularly. With the girls—of all ages—I had to get a little demanding that she be allowed to sleep if that was what she wanted to do. Ducky was no problem; frequently he'd put her in the front sling, plop into his favorite chair, put his feet up and they'd _both_ take a nap. (I managed to sneak a picture one time. Guess what he's getting on a mug for Father's Day?)

So early one evening while the meatloaf and baked potatoes were finishing up their visit to the kitchen dry sauna, I popped into the living room and wasn't surprised to find Ducky there, arms resting on the top edge of the cribette, staring down at our daughter with a funny smile on his face.

I slipped up next to him and draped an arm across his back. "Whatcha thinking about?"

He was silent for a long moment, and then laughed. "She looks like Pyewacket."

I was expecting something just a bit more heartwarming. I straightened up, put my hands on my hips and gave him a dirty look. Alexandra has his eyes, his nose (I think so anyway—at least the potential is there), reddish blonde curls that look like she stole them from _my_ baby pictures, my mother's cheekbones (glad _someone_ finally got them), and Dr. Lester thinks she'll grow up to be a tall drink o' water. "You think our child looks like _a Siamese cat_?"

He realized—belatedly—how bad it sounded. "No! Oh, no, no—I just—" He indicated the sleeping lump of baby. "It looks like she was trying to crawl and suddenly decided a nap was in order." She lay facedown and at an angle one would associate with a street racecar—butt up in the air, face down low, hunched together in a pile. I hated to admit it, but I'd seen Pye in that pose all over the store; he'd be walking from point A to point B, cross a sunbeam and fall down in mid-step. Her thumb had popped out of her mouth and her tiny starfish hand was half-curled over her nose the way Pye's paw often was, too. "Well… I see what you mean." She opened her eyes and blinked sleepily at us—and I realized there was the faintest lavender tint to her irises—just like Pye. "But if she suddenly sports a tail, that's _your_ damn DNA!"


	21. Logic Is A Wreath Of Pretty Flowers

Summer, 2012

* * *

><p><strong>Logic Is A Wreath Of Pretty Flowers… That Smell <strong>_**Bad**_

"What a _pretty_ puppy. Is this _your_ puppy, sweetheart? What is his name?"

While I tried not to upchuck over the syrupy sweet voice coming from the old biddy in front of us, Lexi started with the last question—and a correction. "_Her_ name is Contessa."

"What a pretty name for such a pretty puppy."

Puppy, hell, the dog was at least ten. But I guess all females are vain about their ages to some extent, because she wagged her tail and looked up with a pleasant expression.

"Contessa is a cow."

That stopped her in her tracks. "I beg your pardon?"

"Contessa is a cow," she repeated, enunciating more clearly.

She smiled a little more broadly. "No, sweetheart, I think she's a doggie."

Lexi got the patient look she gets when explaining to me that because she just talked to one of the extended family members in California, it must be three hours earlier than the clock says and she doesn't need to go to bed for another three hours. She's got the concept of time zones down; we just need to refine the data. "Cows eat grass," she said slowly and clearly. "Contessa eats grass. Contessa is a cow."

The woman mustered a smile and gave me a pitying look. "You poor dear," she murmured, "It must be difficult with a…_damaged child_," she whispered before scuttling away.

I stood in stunned silence for a moment. I followed Lexi's tugging hand back into the kitchen and absently said yes, since dinner wasn't for _ages_, she could have a snack (knowing full well that it wouldn't stop her from chowing down at afternoon tea with Mother). I left her with a peanut butter-banana-honey sandwich (proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that she _is_ my child) and found Ducky in his "office" proofing an article he was submitting to _American Journal of Forensic Medicine and Pathology_. I related the story—and he wasn't pissed. He was mildly amused, but primarily proud.

"Well, you must admit that—incorrect as the end conclusion may be—it was an excellent example of transitive logic. And she did that progression on her own!"

He sat up straighter, with a decidedly 'proud papa' look on his face, and I had to laugh. "I love you. You always put things back in the right perspective."

"Mooooommmmmeeee?"

"Come in here to ask!" I had already heard Victoria stirring in her room, so I didn't take her to task for bellowing through the house. I'm just as guilty.

She came in at a dead run and skittered to a stop. "Can I have a bag of pretzews?"

"May I," Ducky and I chorused.

She sighed and for a second had a look I would normally associate with a teenager and the word, 'What_ever_.' "_May_ I have a bag of pretzews?"

"No, that sandwich is enough. Grandma is getting up from her nap; after we get back, it will be time for tea."

Knowing that afternoon tea meant little sandwiches, cookies, éclairs and, of course, tea, she didn't quibble. "Okay."

"_My_ Lexi!" Ducky leaned out of his chair to collect a bear hug.

"_My_ Daddy!"

"Has anybody told you today what a smart little girl you are?" He bumped his forehead against hers.

She frowned; I could see the wheels turn, going over that whole Saturday. "No."

"Well, you are. Very, _very_ smart."

"Okay," she said doubtfully. I knew she didn't doubt his assessment; it was more along the lines of, 'Duh, of course I am, why do we even need to discuss the issue?' "Are you coming with us?"

"If I finish my article. I have a deadline to meet."

She perked up. "What kiwwed it?"

He looked puzzled. "I'm sorry—killed what?"

"The dead wine. Is it at the Navy Yard? How do you kiww a wine?"

Ducky and I looked at each other and burst into laughter.

Lexi looked from Ducky to me then back. Despite her expectant look, we couldn't stop giggling and form a definition. (And it's hard to define 'deadline' to someone who doesn't even have homework.) Finally she gave up. Giving us a last, pathetic look, she headed for her grandmother's room, muttering, "Parents are _weird,_" as she left.

Ducky looked up at me. "Definite Auntie Charlie influence." We started laughing all over again.


	22. Come Over To The Dark Side

December 2013 (and spring 2014—a little bit)

* * *

><p><strong>Come Over To The Dark Side. We Have Cookies.<strong>

"Mommy…_pweeeeeease_?"

When I was Lexi's age, we had a cat named Lazarus. He started out as Meatloaf (don't ask), but Ray renamed him after he got hit by a car and—thanks to a _very_ good vet—survived. He had pins in one back leg; if his food bowl was empty, the leg would slide out to the side and he'd give you his 'pity me, I'm a crippled orphan waif' look. The gimpy leg never got in the way when chasing the neighbor's German Shepard (yes, that's the right order), but if he wanted sympathy or service—well, you could almost picture the crutch cobbled from a tree limb and the tin cup in his paw.

I wouldn't be so suspicious as to say Lexi was doing it on purpose (I _know_ Lazarus was), but her "L" lisp was starting to disappear… except for when she was appealing to my better nature. (That sounds so much nicer than 'when she was trying to pull a con job.') It had to be accidental. It better be accidental.

"Honey, we _just_ cleared the living room of all those—all those boxes of books for the school carnival." I bit back the cuss words I really wanted to use. I am going to put Wanda Packer's number on call block from here on out. "The cr—stuff for the wrapping paper sale arrived this morning and is now stacked in the living room. And you want me to be cookie chairman for the Girl Scouts? Honey—you're a newbie, you're a Daisy. Shouldn't the mother of one of the older girls be chairman?" I asked with a desperate, hopeful, marginally maniacal grin on my face. "You know—someone who's been around a while, knows the system?"

"Nana says _she_ was cookie chairman _every year_ and you know _egg-zactly_ what to do."

Nana is my mother. I'm putting her on call block, too.

"Mr. Sherman got transferred to Idunno—"

"Idaho."

"And Mrs. Sherman _had_ to go with him and _she_ was cookie chairman—_pweeeeeeease_?"

I sighed in defeat. "I guess so."

She whooped in delight and ran to the wall. "Mrs. Eloy, Mrs. Eloy, Mom says _yes_, she'd _love_ to!" she shouted into the phone. She held out the receiver. "She wants to talk to you. I'll hang up the stension."

"Extension," I said automatically. "Hi, Carole."

There was a laugh as the other receiver clattered into place. "Something tells me you didn't _exactly_ say, 'I'd love to.' How did she do it? When Lexi volunteered you, I figured, 'no way.'"

I sighed again. "Sometimes I just can't say no."

"And you only have one kid? Amazing."

"Carole, you have a filthy mind. I admire that. Give me the details…"

Ducky and I had a long discussion about how to deal with the cookie orders. Back when _I_ was a Girl Scout, we tromped around the block with our order sheet, selling them at fifty cents a box. I can remember the price going up to seventy-five; the math-challenged in the troop made a cheat sheet of seventy-five-cent increments—now they have it on the form. And it's a _lot_ more than seventy-five cents. But it's not considered safe to go around the neighborhood. As a matter of fact, the girls aren't allowed to do it unless accompanied by an adult, and they _still_ discourage it. No, for pre-orders it's preferred to take the form to work… where the parents do the selling.

We compromised. Lexi schlepped around the neighborhood for about a ten-block radius. Ducky took her one day, I took her another, until we'd reached our limit. (Our limit. Not hers.) She went with Mother and Suzy during afternoon walks during the week and cleaned up for the _really_ local area. One, she's the only kidin the area who's in Scouts (she's almost the only kid, period). Two, everybody has known Mother and Ducky for some 25 years and gladly placed orders. (Even Mr. Eller, the birdwatcher across the street (the one Mother thinks is a spy) ordered a dozen boxes. At four bucks a pop, no less.) I never mentioned the cookie form to any customers, just let it sit by the register. I still managed a respectable number of sales.

And Ducky got permission for Lexi to come to work and go around the building. I figured between Gibbs and the team and a few others, she'd probably do another 40-50 boxes.

It is to laugh.

Order sheets arrived in time for the start of winter vacation; booth sales would be later in the spring. For the whole week-long vacation, Lexi drove in with Ducky, did her sales spiel, joined me at the store around lunch, then went home to Reston in the afternoon. I had provided Ducky with two order brochures, figuring there would be plenty 'sure, I'll order a box' orders from people who had already ordered ten from their own kid, two from a neighbor's, three more at church and so on. I figured her extended family would be the big sales.

As I looked over the order sheets—Ducky had photocopied the blank and came home with, dear god, _twelve_ order sheets—my jaw dropped.

I walked back to the living room in a state of shock. No; horror. "Is this for real?"

He looked up from where he and Lexi were playing Citadel on the coffee table. "Yes," he said cautiously. "Why do you question it?"

"Well, one, there are names I've never even _heard_ of—despite five years of Christmas parties, family picnics and whatnot. Two—" I looked at my final tally sheet. "I come up with—and I just triple-checked my addition—_four thousand, seven hundred and two boxes_!" My voice hit about F above high C on the last word.

Ducky looked at Lexi. "I'm sorry, sweetheart." He looked back up at me and I could see the laugh in his eyes. "She was hoping to break five thousand."

"Well, if you add in the sheets from the store and the eight zillion from around the block—"

He wagged a finger. "Don't exaggerate."

"Ducky—if every girl in the troop sells this many—" I censored myself. "—_freeping_ cookies—" I waved my arm. "Where do you propose to put them? Remember, the cookie chairman takes delivery of ALL the cookies—for _each and every girl_ and for _each and every cookie booth_," I said with an ominous look.

"We'll find a place," he said cheerfully.

I planted my hands on my hips. "And how the—_heck_—did you guys sell—" I checked the sheet again. "Four thousand, seven hundred and two boxes of cookies?"

Ducky looked guilty. Just a little bit. "Aunt Abby and Aunt Ziva took me around the first two days," Lexi chirped.

I plopped onto the couch. "Oh, god," I groaned. "I'll be up on charges of cookie sales by coercion and intimidation."

"Uncle Timmy took me another day. He said computer geeks eat lots of junk food. Boy, did they order a bunch!"

"I can imagine," I said weakly.

"Uncle Tony got all the ladies to buy lots and lots of cookies—"

"I'll bet he did."

"And Uncle Jethro took me on Friday." Lexi bounced up and down on the couch next to me. "Daddy had to print five more pages that day!"

I shook my head and couldn't help but laugh. "I'll bet he did."

"Next year, I wanna sell _ten_ thousand!"

Ducky looked innocently toward the ceiling. "Next year," I said super-sweetly, "_Daddy_ gets to be cookie chairman."

Once upon a time in Virginia, there was a little girl who sold one hell of a lot of Girl Scout cookies.

Elizabeth Brinton, formerly of Fairfax, Virginia, still holds the record: 18,000 boxes in one cookie season.

And, personally, after stacking crates of cookies in every room but the bathrooms, it's a record I hope we never break… but I'm not placing any bets.


	23. Lack Of Planning On Your Part

May, 2014

* * *

><p><strong>Lack Of Planning On Your Part Does Not Constitute An Emergency On Mine<strong>

It's hard—almost impossible—to break a kid of the habit of interrupting. They're stuck in "now" mode—hungry NOW, I want to do this NOW, I want to go there NOW—and they're very Id-oriented. It's like having a taller, bipedal cat with slightly better communication skills.

If I had a nickel for every, "Mommy, Mommy!" – "Lexi, you need to _wait_ and not interrupt" exchange, I could retire. Well—take Ducky out to a nice dinner, anyway. But, on the up side, I could see that Lexi was improving. Slowly… very slowly… but improving.

If I saw her pelting toward me at warp speed, I'd try to catch her eye and send a SLOW DOWN AND WAIT POLITELY vibe. I was at the point where I was successful about 50% of the time. She'd scamper up, stand there dancing in place until I finished my conversation and acknowledged her, then:

"The ice cream truck is at the corner!"  
>"My Halloween chocolate in the freezer looks dusty!"<br>"Grandma spilled glitter all over!"

Truly earth-shaking news.

"When the truck gets to our corner, you may get an ice cream. Please remember to ask Suzy and Grandma if they want ice cream, too. You may get money from the envelope in the whatnot drawer, make sure to write down what you spent."  
>"The chocolate is still safe to eat—and, no, not until after diner."<br>"What, you forgot how to use the Dustbuster or something?"

Ducky reported similar heart-stopping moments. Over and over we stressed 'urgent,' 'emergency,' 'important' versus 'it can wait.' (Ice cream truck would never be 'it can wait,' of that I am certain.)

One Saturday in May Ducky and I were in the back yard, deeply engrossed in a discussion with Mrs. McKirk and Max Dickenson. Max had been called in to replace our joint fence that was in danger of falling down into a pile of sticks. (It seemed like every termite in Virginia had taken up residence in that fence. My theory was that it had only remained standing because they were all holding hands and singing "Kumbaya." Fortunately the fence was so yummy, they'd left the houses alone—but now that we'd killed them off, one good sneeze would knock that sucker over.) Neither Ducky nor Mrs. McKirk had ever liked the original-issue fence (original to them, anyway, probably built in the 50s) and were working with Max to find a design that would work well with both houses.

Thus far Max's conversation had been pretty scant. After his introduction, he'd listened to our tales of termite treatment and tentative ideas. "Brick and wrought iron?" (Four words.) "Got pets?" (Two words.) "Go with solid." (Three words.) Then he started sketching and gave us several designs from which to choose. He came highly recommended and does no advertising, relying on word-of-mouth. Words from other peoples' mouths, I guess.

We'd narrowed the field to two and were debating the pros and cons when Lexi barreled out of the kitchen door. Sill talking to Mrs. McKirk, I caught her eye and ESP'd, _Stop—Wait politely—Be quiet._

She stopped just behind Max and stood, fidgeting. I continued my discussion, deliberately not hurrying. Ducky had caught sight of the guided missile and wasn't rushing his part of the conversation, either. Lexi _really_ needed to learn to wait and if we had to drag out a conversation to make a point, so be it. Every minute or so, she'd start to wind up again and I'd send another "Chill out and wait" waggle of the eyebrows. She chilled. She waited.

Conversation over, contract signed and deposit given, I turned to my dancing daughter. "Thank you for waiting so patiently, Lexi!" I gave her a big smile and a bigger hug. Reward good behavior if you want it to continue. "What's up?"

Very politely, very respectfully, she said, "Mommy, the washing machine is peeing really badly."

Ducky and I almost ran each other over getting to the basement door.

Mother was standing in the doorway, watching the slowly rising tide. "Donald! You bought an indoor pool! How charming!"

"Yeah. _Charming_." It was a muttered growl. Lexi gave him a fretful look and Ducky quickly squatted down to eye level. "Don't worry, Allie-oop." The old nickname made her smile and relax. "It wasn't your fault." He gave her a hug, looking over her head at the lapping waves below—at this point, the delay of a couple of minutes for a hug wouldn't make a lick of difference—and then looked up at me. "But we _really_ need to clarify what is and is not an emergency."

I took Mother's arm (she was happily chattering about buying a bikini for the pool) and gently pulled her away. "Agreed!"

Bikini. Poor Gibbs.


	24. Sick And Tired

A/N Dedicated to Aidan—and Aidan's Mommy

January 2009

* * *

><p><strong>Sick (And Tired)<strong>

_"And tired" always followed sick. Worst beating I ever got in my life, my mother said, "I am just sick..." And I said, "And tired." I don't remember anything after that. (Bill Cosby)  
><em>

There's one thing pretty much everyone can agree on: being sick _sucks_.

You come down with what Ev calls 'the galloping never-get-overs,' some stupid, stinking, rotten _germ_ that had the nerve to invade your body and make you sick as a kennel full of dogs, and you spend the first three days sure you're going to die—and the last four afraid you _won't_. Nothing worse than that.

For fifty years, that was my way of thinking. Then I got married, had a baby and found something worse_._

No, not labor and delivery.

No, it's not my husband being sick (men can be such babies sometimes—my Dad was (and still is), but Ducky, thank god, isn't that type).

It's not even Mother being sick. (She just takes to her bed and tries to prove that you can survive on cherry Nyquil, hot rum toddies and ginger ale—with the occasional chicken soup chaser.)

No, it's having a sick _child_.

Let me refine that—having a _teething, pre-verbal_ sick child. A teething, pre-verbal, sick child who cries and barfs and has ugly diapers and howls and whimpers and can't tell you where it hurts. (On the first day, Ducky said, "It's the flu," and ran to the store for the baby version of Gatorade and clear juices and, when she reached the stage where food was a possibility again, said to go with the brat system. Before I had a chance to ask him who the hell was he calling a brat, he said, "Bananas, rice, applesauce, toast." Oh. _That_ brat.)

By the second day, I was sure my beloved—ace medical examiner that he is—was wrong. I sat in the waiting room of the pediatrician's, sure my darling baby had some dreaded disease and trying to keep the other germs away from her and our version of the plague in our corner. An hour and a half later, I went home with, "It's the flu, it's going around," ringing in my ears.

By the fourth day, I had forgotten what sleep was.

I slept when Allie slept. Fifteen minutes here, twenty minutes there… with hours of miserable wakefulness in between. Ducky did the best he could, but they had caught back-to-back cases before this even started and he wasn't getting home until nine or ten. (In my sleep-deprived state, I started fuming that he was doing this on purpose. I never said it out loud, fortunately.) She was sick and tired of being sick and I was sick and tired of being tired. But it wasn't like either of us could change the situation.

Day five, I was talking to the walls. Day six, I was walking into them.

The evening of day seven it looked like Allie was _finally_ starting to get over it… and it looked like I was finally starting to come down with it. Mother was fine and had been the whole time (Suzy had to all but tackle her to keep her from trying to go upstairs)—and they'd pulled in a relief M.E. when Ducky politely pointed out that he had worked twelve days straight, so he'd actually be home for a few days in a row.

He took one look, ordered me out of the kitchen and came upstairs in ten minutes (chicken soup and ginger ale in hand) to make sure I'd followed his instructions and actually gone to bed. I had; I felt too crappy to do otherwise.

I almost pouted when he suggested that he sleep in the spare room, but I could see the logic. He had the next four days off, and would be taking care of Allie, mother during the night and, now, apparently me, too. "If I come down ill, who is going to take care of the three of us? Mother?" Now, _there's_ an idea to give you nightmares.

By midnight, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I was so grateful we had a master suite—no stumbling down the hall to the bathroom, hoping and praying I'd make it in time. After the first hour of wearing a path in the carpet I said screw it—I dragged a blanket and pillow into the bathroom and camped there until dawn. (You know it's bad when you guzzle down water just so there will be _something_ in there to throw up.)

When I'd made it a solid hour without worshipping the porcelain god, I figure it was safe to crawl back into bed. _If there is justice in the universe… I'll die in my sleep…_

"Weh…"

I closed my eyes and groaned.

"Eh… eh…" Tiny not-quite-cries, snuffly and whimpering.

_Poor, sick kid… my poor little baby…_ I tugged at the covers; they felt like they weighed a ton. The fretful noises were getting louder. I sat on the edge of the bed, my head spinning; grabbing the nightstand, I tried to lever myself up. I didn't care if I had to goddamned _crawl_ into her room, I was going to—

"_There's_ my girl…"

A second voice from the baby monitor, a soft, gentle coo: Ducky.

"You and Mommy have had quite the miserable week, eh, sweet pea?" More eh-weh noises. "Being sick all this time… and two teeth trying to put in an appearance! Things have not been very rosy, have they?"

I sat back down.

"But I promise, they're going to get better straightaway. Just think—when those teeth come in, you'll have some real treats in store. Roast chicken… pot roast—oh, your mother makes a _marvelous_ pot roast—there, I'm sure _that_ helps. Clean diaper now and fresh jammies in just a bit, hmm?"

Good idea. It took effort, but I pulled a fresh nightgown from the dresser, changed out of my sweat-sticky gown, tossed it on the floor and all but fell back into bed.

"Well, that's not a proper bath—but I'm sure you feel a bit better, yes? Yes, of course you do, of course you do… One foot in _here_… one foot in _here_… Hmm. Who in the world designed this silly thing? The snaps don't seem to match up." He huffed a short breath. "Well, we certainly aren't going to wake up your mother to figure this out. I'm sure the two of us are bright enough to do it on our own."

I settled into the pillow, smiling as he futzed with the sleeper, muttering under his breath.

"Oh. _Oh_. Now I… There we go. Heavens. Perhaps we should color-code these snaps like the connections on the back of the stereo, eh?"

Not a bad idea. Hope one of us remembers it later on.

"Do you know who bought that sleeper for you? Your Aunt Charlotte did. I know, I know, she prefers Charlie… but she doesn't mind that I call her Charlotte, and Charlotte is such a pretty name… You're a very lucky girl, so many aunts and—drat it, I just saw that bottle—oh, there it is. Now, I know this is dreadfully dull stuff. But it has the right measure of chemicals to keep your electrolytes in balance, keep you properly hydrated—"

I snuggled into the pillow and smiled; _watch out, kid, there's gonna be a test later on._

I recognized the creak; he was settling into Gamma's old rocking chair. "And I think in an hour or so we'll try some applesauce in that tummy. Mmh? Does that sound like a good idea?"

There was a gurgling giggle, a sound I hadn't heard in what felt like forever.

"I thought you'd agree. Now, you just settle—oh, not to worry, it's washable… There you go. I know, I told you it's terribly boring—but be glad things have improved over the years. You don't have to eat Pablum. Heavens! When I was an intern, there was one young lad who flung it about the room with great abandon. The matron didn't find some of it until the next day; it had hardened so that it had to be sanded off. No, I promise, it's the truth. Sanded. So—this may be boring, but it's not vile…" No more talking, just the soft squeak-creak of the rocker for a minute or two. "That's my girl, just drink it down…" Another silence, broken only by the rocker—then, very softly from the speaker I heard… wasn't sure… yes; _singing_.

"You are my sunshine… my only sunshine…  
>You make me happy… when skies are gray…<br>You'll never know, dear… how much I love you…  
>Please don't take… my sunshine… away…"<p>

As I fell back asleep, suddenly I felt _much_ better.


	25. Thanksgiving Is An Emotional Holiday

November, 2010

* * *

><p><strong>Thanksgiving Is An Emotional Holiday.<br>****People Travel Thousands Of Miles  
><strong>**To Be With People They Only See Once A Year.  
><strong>**And Then Discover  
><strong>**Once A Year Is Way Too Often.  
><strong>**(Johnny Carson)**

Early on in our relationship, Ducky and I came to an understanding regarding holidays. I would go ape over Halloween, he'd go overboard on Thanksgiving, he'd take the lead on Christmas and I'd do the same on Easter. Worked pretty well the first two years of our relationship (even if the very first tree he found for the store put me in sticker shock for the day).

Ducky is the undisputed king of Thanksgiving and Christmas. After Lexi was born, there was some rumbling in the jungle that, now that Ducky had a 'real' family, the NCIS crew would be celebrating elsewhere. I don't know what he said to whom (some things are better off left in the dark), but everyone was at the table for both Thanksgiving and Christmas… and we nudged tradition even more by getting my parents, Ray, Barb and their tribe as well as Lily, Ev and Charlie under the roof. It was crazy, it was chaotic—and we had a blast. And it set a precedent for the coming years. (Barb never said a word, but I think deep down she was glad to have a few years off and just show up with her signature pies.)

Lexi didn't get a chance to really enjoy her first Thanksgiving (not even three months old; turkey and stuffing was out of the question). She made up for it the next year. Granted, for every bite that went in her mouth, two fell to the floor… but she was a big hit with Foot and the dogs.

The year she turned two, she bugged us nonstop to be allowed to lead grace. We figured it was the short and sweet one they used at church before the kids got their juice and animal crackers at snack and, hey, it beat having my dad say the blessing. (Normally he is only slightly chattier than Gibbs is. But you hand him a wine glass and stand him up at Thanksgiving or Christmas… and you'll be having cold turkey and congealed gravy for supper. Mother—Victoria, that is—got him to cut to the chase the first year. After five minutes of extemporaneous musings on the love of family, traditions, holidays and so forth, she turned to Gibbs. "Matthew, will you arrest him? I wish to eat." At least she didn't ask Gibbs to _shoot_ Daddy.)

So we said yes. She spent the week waddling around the house, muttering under her breath and looking very intent. She looked so much like Ducky does before testifying in court, I had to bury me face in the tea towels to muffle my laughter.

Thanksgiving dinner was a marvel. The turkey was perfectly browned, the gravy was lumpless (the potatoes weren't—we like 'em that way). Abby had brought her killer cranberry sauce—we had enough food to feed a small nation. Which was a good thing; our crowd is verging on one.

While I resisted the temptation to snag a roll and stuff it in my mouth (I was _starving_), all eyes turned on the toddler seated on the booster seat next to me. Showtime.

She folded her hands neatly and stared at her plate. After a couple of nudges, everyone followed suit and bowed their heads. Silence.

In ringing tones came, "Ovah the teeth and pass the gums, wook out tummy heah it comes!"

Silence. Different kind of silence. My head jerked up and I stared at Ducky at the end of the long table. He looked the way I felt—stunned, shocked (and trying to not laugh). I don't know why, but we both looked at Gibbs.

Gibbs, however, was looking at Tony DiNozzo.

DiNozzo's hands flew up. "Not me! I swear it, Boss, it wasn't me!"

There was a sudden burst of laughter and we all turned to stare at my youngest nephew, Kevin. He was laughing so hard he couldn't even form words.

"Kevin…" my brother almost growled. Barb had her forehead in her hand and was beet red.

"I nev—nev—never thought—thought she'd—do it!" Kevin finally gasped out.

Just when I was afraid my brother and his wife would go home with one fewer in the car than they arrived with, there was a delighted giggle from next to Ducky.

"Oh, Donald!" Mother swatted at his hand with her napkin. "Don't you remember _your_ first grace—"

"Dinner's served," I announced. I had never heard the tale—and, from Ducky's wince, I didn't want to. Not in public, anyway.


	26. My Cat Is Smarter

January, 2016

* * *

><p><strong>My Cat Is Smarter Than Your Honor Student!<strong>

I wanted to shake my head to clear it. My hearing must be going south… "I'm sorry—did you say _held back_?"

I hadn't cared for Lexi's second grade teacher from the start of the school year, but I'd kept a smile on my face and my thoughts to myself. But today the not quite smug, slightly superior smile on her face made me want to pop her one. I didn't care if she _was_ a couple of years older than I and had come out of retirement to fill in when the regular teacher quit right before the start of the school year—older isn't always better.

"Many students daydream in class, go off-task… but Alexandra actually falls asleep in class! I've asked her numerous times if she went to bed on time…?" She gave me an expectant look.

"She goes to bed on time," I said, staunchly defending my daughter. Honesty compelled me to add—reluctantly, "She doesn't always _stay_ there."

Another almost-smirk. "I can imagine it's difficult being an… _older_… parent." (Oh, drop dead.) "Some parents have to unplug the video games."

"Oh, she doesn't get up to play video games," I assured her. Her patronizing smile was plain: _sur-r-r-re she doesn't._ "We always read a book before bedtime—right now we're in the middle of _The Secret Garden_—the one with the Tasha Tudor illustrations? L—Alexandra will pull the book down and keep reading from where we left off. She's done it—well, it feels like forever. My husband or I will go upstairs, turn the light back off, tuck her back in bed… then ten minutes later the other of us will do the same thing. Five, six times a night. Donald—" (I carefully didn't say "Ducky"—Mrs. Keough is clearly _not_ the nickname type.) "—says we should just take the book with us when we leave the room; I said half the fun of sneaking extra reading time was when my mother caught me and she should have the same memory."

"I'm sorry. I know you own a bookstore, you would _want_ your child to be a good reader—"

"_Want_?"

"But the simple fact is that any time we're reading out of our books and it's Alexandra's turn, she is _never_ on the correct page. She's thumbing through the book, looking at pictures—as I said, many times she's sleeping at her desk!"

I held on to my temper. "So… when she does get on the correct page, is she able to read along with the class?"

"Well—yes," she admitted. "But it's clear the text is beyond her."

I couldn't stop the snort. "Beyond? Highly unlikely."

That ruffled her pinfeathers. "Mrs. Mallard," she said, cool and firm, "if Alexandra's work does not improve, she _will_ be held back next year."

I gave her a brittle smile. "Hold that thought." I walked over to the big patio doors and looked for Lexi. She was on the playground, playing a clap-hands-rhyme game with Teri, the friend who was going to be spending the weekend with us. I curved my thumb and middle finger in my mouth and whistled sharply. (It took Ray an entire summer to teach me to whistle like that. He was so proud when I finally got it down pat; the fact that my mother said it was unladylike made us _both_ happy.) "Lex!" The girls stopped and looked up. "Could you come here? I just need you for a minute."

A hurried conversation, then: "Both of us?" she called back.

"No, just you. It'll just be a minute, then you can go back to your game." She tore up the stairs next to the grass slope, slowing down and entering the room at a polite speed. I noticed that she was very quiet. Silent, even; a far cry from first grade (Mrs. Itami had asked me if she had an off button—but she laughed when she asked). "Lexi… Mrs. Keough tells me you've been falling asleep in class." She looked down at the floor. "Have you been getting up at night, reading after Daddy and I have gone to bed?" She shook her head. "Lexi—I won't be angry if you have been. But I need to know the truth."

"No, Mommy." She looked up, blue eyes damp and brow scrunched. "Honest."

"I believe you. Then why are you falling asleep in class?" (Beyond why—_how_ is my question? Who can sleep in a classroom of squirrelly second-graders?)

She shot a glance at her teacher—just a fraction of a millisecond—and looked back at the floor.

I sat down so I was closer to eye-level. "Honey, are you having problems reading your textbooks?"

She looked mildly uncomfortable. "No…"

"Do me a favor? Go get one of your schoolbooks and bring it here, please?" She probably figured her old lady was bonkers, but she did as she was asked. "Thank you. Ah. Science. What unit are you working on?"

She flipped to the table of contents. "_The Solar System_." She sounded about as enthusiastic as I would be over chaperoning a Scout campout… _again_. (In my defense, Carole Eloy had called me after Lexi, then Ducky and I, then Mother, then Lexi (again), then Mother (again) had passed around a bug—I was just coming down with it a second time, hadn't slept much for two weeks and was not in my right mind. The fact that I said 'yes' immediately and didn't squawk over helping corral 40-odd Brownies on a weekend trip to the mountains should have made her suspicious.) Astronomy. I was surprised; Tim McGee is a huge astronomy buff, and he and Abby had taken Lexi to a special night gig at the US Naval Observatory. Lexi talked of nothing else before and after for weeks.

"Okay. Would you read a bit of the chapter to me, please?" I put on my most interested face.

She sighed. "_Our solar system is made up of the Sun and eight planets. The Sun is in the middle of our solar system. The eight planets go around the Sun. The planet closest to the Sun is named Mercury_." Her voice was almost a monotone, the words keeping time with a very… slow… metronome. Mrs. Keough caught my eye; _see_?

"That's great, sweetie." I leaned over almost conspiratorially. "What do you have in your lunch box?"

_Is this a trick question?_ "Um… my Thermos," she said slowly. "The boxes for my sandwich and chips and stuff…"

"And what book?"

_Am I busted_? "Um… _The Silver Chair_," she said almost guiltily.

"One of the Narnia books? Cool. Could you go get it?"

Still looking like the other shoe was going to fall any second now, she dug a battered paperback from her unicorn-bedecked lunchbox and held it out.

"No, could you read to me from that book, too, please?" This time she didn't stifle the _are you nuts?_ look. "Indulge me," I whispered.

With a look that was almost a shrug she opened the book to her Garfield bookmark. "_Chapter Ten. Travels Without The Sun. "Who's there?" shouted the three travelers. "I am the Warden of the Marches of Underland, and with me stand a hundred Earthmen in arms," came the reply. "Tell me quickly who you are and what is your errand in the Deep Realm?_""

Gone was the monotone. Gone was the metronome. She put different voices to the dialogue, appropriate drama to the supporting words—the way Ducky and I read to her, the way _she_ reads to _us_, the way everyone reads during Story Time at the store. "You did a wonderful job, Lexi. Now." I folded my arms across the back of the chair and propped my chin on them. "Tell me some of the differences between the two books."

"Well—one is a hardback. The other is a paperback. One is a textbook, with school binding—"

I almost choked on my smile. After seven years with me at the store, she's picked up a lot of the trade.

She caught my strangled look and broke off. "Um… one is a textbook. Nonfiction. The other is fiction. Fantasy. One is fact, the other is fancy." (And that last bit is tea with her grandmother showing through.)

"Very nice comparison. Now, when you read from the books, you sounded very different. Why is that?"

"Well… with _The Silver Chair_ I wanted to sound different for the different characters. And you always say when you're reading out loud you need to—" She hunted for the word. "You need to—_engage_ the audience."

"Quite true. But don't you need to _engage the audience_ when you read nonfiction, too?" She looked at me blankly. "Okay—when Uncle Tim and Aunt Abby took you to the observatory and you brought home that book, _Asteroids and Planets and Stars, Oh, My!_—and you read to us from the book?" She nodded enthusiastically. "You certainly 'engaged the audience' then."

"Yes, but—" She broke off and looked confused.

I was pretty sure what she was going to say. "It's okay, honey. Finish what you were going to say."

She hesitated, mulling it over. "It's just that—the book from the observatory? It's _interesting_. Our science book?" Her face was still toward me, but her eyes flicked toward Mrs. Keough. "It's really… _really_ boring." She looked miserable. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about. _You_ didn't write the book. You just gave an honest review." I gave a nod toward the patio door. "Back to playing Miss Mary Mack. I'll be done in a few minutes; we'll stop by Teri's house for her things—then home, and Daddy said we're ordering Chinese tonight."

She clapped her hands and literally skipped out of the room and I turned my attention back to Mrs. Keough.

_Not_ a happy face. Some people don't like having their notions turned upside-down. "She's… _bored_," I said. "Who can blame her? That book is the most stilted, dull, tedious tripe—I know, because I was on the textbook committee and recommended against it last year. It's a second grade textbook _barely_ written on a second grade level—I'm surprised the whole class isn't snoring."

"We have to provide materials for all of the students," she said stiffly.

"What about the kids who truly _are_ under this reading level?"

"We have special education classes—"

"And for those who are… _above_ the reading level?" _Like Lexi_? I carefully didn't add.

"All of the children are tested at the end of third grade," she recited. "Those scoring in the upper five percent are recommended for the GATE program the following year. But students _must_ stay current on their work—"

I gave her what I hoped was a pleasant smile. "Perhaps we should have her take that test _this_ year?"

"It's _only_ at the end of third grade."

"Alexandra is reading _The Silver Chair_ during lunch. Fifth-grade reading level. _The Secret Garden_ is seventh, I believe. Since the test is in the third grade, why don't we just move her _to_ the third grade?"

"There are other things beyond reading." She was still tight and stiff.

"True. But reading is the fundamental basis for all learning. If you can't read the instructions, you can't do a math problem. If you can't read the worksheet, you can't do the experiment. If—"

She held up a hand. "Understood. But Alexandra needs to show proficiency in math and science and—"

"Well, back in college, I tested out for any number of classes…"

"That was in college," she countered.

No shit, Sherlock. "Is it impossible to 'test out' for the third grade?"

"Not _impossible_, but—"

"Good!" I beamed at her. "I'll just stop by the office on our way out, see if the principal is still in and get this ball rolling." I all but leaped to my feet and stuck out a hand. "I'm _so_ glad we had this meeting, Mrs. Keough!" _And I can't WAIT to get my kid out of your class._

She was still a beat or two behind the band. "Ah—yes, yes… But—" She shook my hand absently, her thought fading away.

I collected the girls, stopped by the office and spoke to Mrs. Cook (who was enthusiastic about the plan) and got us on our way.

Old age and treachery may overcome youth and skill—but working the system to your own end beats 'em both.


	27. Santa Claus Has The Right Idea

Many Decembers, many years…

* * *

><p><strong>Santa Claus Has The Right Idea—Visit People Once A Year.<br>****(Victor Borge)**

**2011**

_The first thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:  
>Is finding a Christmas tree<em>

I didn't say a word. I didn't have to. I just stared.

Ducky looked abashed. "Well... you see… they played _Charlie__Brown__Christmas_ at preschool…"

"And Lexi took it to heart. Fine. But she managed to find something that makes Charlie Brown's tree look _lush_. At least tell me you didn't _pay_ for this!"

"Just five dollars." I actually gasped. "It was a charity fundraiser," he hastily assured me. "_All_ the trees looked like this."

Okay… for sweet charity, I actually had to admit it was a cute idea. "But, need I remind you—_how __many __boxes __of __ornaments __have __we __up __in __the __attic_?"

We both stared at the poor, scraggly tree. Just one of our ornaments would make the poor thing lean; two would topple it completely.

Upon arriving home, Lexi had bolted upstairs with barely a, "Hi, Mommy." Now she tore back down, taking the stairs in clumps that made her father and I cringe. She plopped down in front of the tree with a thump that made _my_ knees ache in sympathy and opened a boot-sized shoebox she had brought home from school two days earlier—the contents of which had been a highly guarded secret.

"I couldn't make up my mind. I wanted to make a star for the tree. _And_ a angeow. So I made both."

She had needed the boot box because the star was _huge_. Gold tissue paper that had been shaped and hardened, then coated in multi-colored glitter, it was almost as big as a turkey platter. It probably weighed three times as much as the poor tree. The practical part of my mind was figuring we'd see bits of glitter all over the house until the place was torn down; the impractical part was gushing over how gorgeous the thing was. "Sweetie, that star is magnificent! But I think might be too heavy for the tree." (A gross understatement.) "Would it be okay with you if I put that on the tree at the store?" (Ducky had nudged me toward a huge tree the Christmas we started dating. It filled the front bay window and had been such a hit, I went over the top every Christmas after that.)

She hesitated. "I _guess_ so… but couldn't we get a second tree for here? A big tree? For… aw the presents?" she hinted, managing to sound more hopeful than greedy.

"Good idea," Ducky said with a smile and a wink. There was a screaming pink and purple toddler bike being hidden from prying eyes (thank you, Uncle Jethro) and it needed a big tree.

"But I _think_ this wiwh fit."

"Oh, Lexi…" I reached out a hand and stopped. "May I?"

She beamed at me and set the little figure in my hand.

The gold cord at the top showed it should be an ornament—but it was just the right size to top this bedraggled bit of botanical submission. Barely 5" from top to bottom, made of stiffened cheesecloth (probably leftover from the ghosts they'd made for Halloween), it had wings and a halo made of thin gold pipe cleaners and a head made of a pantyhose-covered Styrofoam ball. Wisps of spun white nylon, appropriately called angel hair, adorned the top of the head. Much like her collection of Amish dolls… it had no face. A critical eye would say it was lopsided, the wings were mismatched and the hair was a messy bird's nest just stuck in place. That critic probably would have missed that every person who went through the dining room stopped and stared at the little angel for minutes on end. The imperfect gluing of the nylon had created a face where there was none. It was endearing… and intriguing.

"_She's smiling. I know she is."  
><em>"_I can't see any eyes… but I just know she's watching everyone who walks by."  
><em>"_I know. There's no face, but I swear I can see a mouth."  
><em>"_You, too? I can almost hear **singing**."_

I was as much in love with this little angel as my mother had been over the rocking horse ornament I made in grade school. "Lexi… she's _perfect_ for the little tree."

"I couldn't get her face right. So I just weft her without one."

"She's beautiful as she is." Ducky's as much a sucker for homemade ornaments as I am.

Sturdier than I thought it would be, the little tree withstood a thin rope of popcorn, the trunk being wrapped in green and red ribbon, tiny candy canes taken from present corsages and seed beads strung on ornament hooks. All told, it made a cute dining table decoration.

And when Christmas was long gone and we were well into January, the lopsided tree was the last thing we took down—and Mother insisted on keeping the angel on her dresser between Christmases. Every time you walked past… you swore she was smiling at you.

**2012**

_The __second __thing __at __Christmas __that's __such __a __pain __to __me:  
>Rigging <em>_up __the __lights,  
>And <em>_finding __a __Christmas __tree._

"Oh, _please_ be careful!"

It wasn't me cautioning Ducky, or Ducky cautioning me. No, Ducky was fretting over Abby scrambling up and down the ladder like a mountain goat. I couldn't even bear to watch her—climbing ladders at work, I can deal with. Outside? Forget it.

"I am!" she chirped. Loop—loop—loop. 'Back in the day,' Ducky had put hooks along the eaves and window frames. Took him a week to do it all, but it made hanging lights a snap for the next 25 years.

Like our mingled ornaments, we had a weird assortment of lights. Strings of big, fat, energy-sucking bulbs that he had brought from California and the tons Ray and I had divvied up when my parents decided a wreath on the door and a tree in the window was good enough. As the wiring died, they were slowly being replaced by more energy-efficient ones—but they look Christmassier, in my opinion. Tiny twinkle light, icicles, runner lights—we had it all. (Mother loves _lots_ of lights at Christmas. Charlie found a house that had the lights timed to _Wizard __of__Winter _by Trans-Siberian Orchestra and Mother went absolutely bananas over it. Charlie used the site to teach Mother how to save and go back to a favorite online.) We had taken care of the window lights and icicles, and Abby had decorated the outside trees before lunch.—but only big bulbs framed the roof of the house. Very right. Very traditional.

Abby scampered down the ladder and plugged the end of the long string into the outdoor socket. "Ta-da!"

"Oh, they look wonderful, Abigail!"

We had tested all the strings before anything else and replaced bulbs that had lost too much of their paint or coating or whatever it was. (I _like_ the chipped ones. It's my version of Charlie Brown's tree, I guess. But I like the bits of clear light shining around the color, kind of like stars poking through a colored sky.) The rainbow of colors looked good even in the daylight.

"Nice job, Abs," I said. "Ready for some—"

The lights all went dark.

"Apple cider…?"

Frowning, Abby unplugged and re-plugged the lights. Nothing. Ducky checked the fuse box. Nothing.

"I forgot," Abby sighed. "With these old lights if one goes out—they _all_ go out." She tucked some spare bulbs in her pocket and scurried back up the ladder. She did it logically, taking an extension cord up with her to try each of the eight daisy-chained strings individually. The first one was good. So was the second. It was the last string (of course) and the last bulb on the string (of course). Strands connected once again and back on terra firma, she surveyed her work with a critical eye. "There! We—" She sighed in frustration as the lights blinked off again. "Dang!"

Ducky held up a hand. "Perhaps we—"

He didn't get a chance to complete his thought. Around the corner, running for his life, streaked Foot. He wasn't being chased, but I had a feeling something starting with a "c" (child or Corgi) was probably to blame. He dodged and ducked the various people, but we put his trajectory off and he careened off the ladder. Before anyone could move quickly enough, the ladder started to topple to earth.

Unfortunately, the extension cord was tangled around it.

The ladder crashed almost in slow motion. Between the weight of the ladder and the extra distance, the string of lights—plugged firmly into the heavy-duty cord—came flying down from the eaves. The ancient hooks couldn't withstand the abuse; they gave way, strings of lights falling gracefully to the ground and hooks flying like shrapnel. As each bulb hit the bricks we were treated to tiny explosions—_pop-pop-pop!_—as they exploded, light after light after light after light.

The noise brought Suzy, Mother and Lexi running (or hobbling) from the house. The six of us just stared at the destruction in silence. After a long moment, Lexi summed it up pretty well:

"_Wow_."

Ducky shrugged philosophically. "We were talking about replacing them anyway…"

**2007**

_The third thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:  
>Hangovers,<br>Rigging up the lights,  
>And finding a Christmas tree.<em>

The Irish Rovers recorded a song called "Wasn't That a Party" that pops up on the radio every St. Patrick's Day and disappears the other 364 days of the year. And that's a shame, because it's funny as hell. The chorus goes:

_Coulda' been the whiskey,  
><em>_Mighta' been the gin,  
><em>_Coulda' been the three or four six-packs, I don't know,  
><em>_But look at the mess I'm in—  
><em>_My head is like a football…  
><em>_I think I'm gonna die!  
><em>_Tell me, me, oh, me, oh, my…  
><em>_Wasn't that a party?_

I can think of a few people who deserve that CD in their Christmas stocking…

The year we got married, in addition to doing a _tour __d__'__force_ Christmas dinner Ducky (and I) threw the Christmas party of all parties. We had kept the wedding list down for practical reasons (one, having that many people for a sit down dinner would break the bank—and while Mrs. Islington had arranged the whole shebang as a 'thank you for saving our corporate asses' gesture, there was no need to be _greedy_—and, two, with that many people, we would have needed to file charter as an emerging nation (Ducky knows a _ton_ of people)). So, December 20, 2007, we threw open the doors and as two-week newlyweds played host and hostess to the free world.

Mother was in rare form. I mean that in a good way. She couldn't put names to faces very well, but she was "merry as a grig." For two days she helped me bake enough cookies and gingerbread to feed the city, helped Charlie decorate the house and told stories about Ducky and many holidays past—some sweet, some that made him sigh and groan faintly—and tales about family members long dead (and, from some of them, best forgotten)… and on the day of the party she wandered about the crowd in a festive cranberry colored lace gown, bouncing from one person to another and having a _grand_ ol' time. She even got Gibbs to dance with her several times.

As the evening wore on, she got happier and happier. I was pretty sure she was hitting some bottle, somewhere. The fruit punch wasn't spiked, but the eggnog was—but only very lightly, since we'd hired a pair of bartenders and a couple of waitresses for the evening to deal with the real drinks. (They had been instructed to let Mother have a drink if she asked for one—but water it down like crazy.)

There were plenty of designated drivers to go around, which was a good thing. A number of guests kind of… _oozed_ down the walkway as opposed to walking.

Cleanup wasn't bad. Charlie was, of course, invited, but wanted 'to be of service' so all evening long she flitted about like a glittery butterfly, gathering cups and plates as she went. Most of the post-midnight job ended up as putting away leftovers and cleaning the serving wear.

I put the remaining fruit punch in a pitcher—it actually had a lot of fruit juice in it and would be pretty good with brunch—and there was enough eggnog left for two big cups. I loathe the stuff, so I poured one for Ducky (who had made batch after batch Saturday morning and never got a chance to drink even one cup) and one for mother. It was only lightly laced with brandy, so it wouldn't hurt her, it would just be a spicy, cloying version of her nightcap.

She gave me a hug and a kiss, proclaiming I am the best daughter-in-law ever born. The fact that I'm her only daughter-in-law didn't detract from the moment at all. She took her cup and settled at the table, nibbling on gingerbread and gulping eggnog.

"The back yard has been policed," Ducky announced, coming in the kitchen door and locking it behind him.

"Thank you, sweetie. Saved you the last of the eggnog." I pointed to the mug on the table.

He smiled in delight. "Oh, thank you! Other than a taste while I mixed it, I never got a chance to have any during the festivities."

"I noticed."

He perched on a chair at the breakfast table and reached for a piece of gingerbread—only to have Mother swat his hand. "Donald, you'll spoil your appetite for dinner!"

"Mother, Saturday's dinner was hours ago. Today's dinner is eighteen hours away. I'll take the risk," he said drily. This time he was successful in snagging a piece "Besides, you only make this at Christmas and refuse to give out the recipe. It's my only chance!"

I grinned to myself. She may not give out the recipe… but _I_ now know it because I took copious notes while she baked.

Ducky took a healthy swig of the eggnog—and began to choke. "Dear God," he gasped. "This is not the eggnog _I_ made!"

"Well, it's the only one we have—ten gallon-sized jugs from the fridge in the garage. What's wrong with it?"

"Don't strike a match within five feet!" His eyes were sill watering. "This is almost pure alcohol!" For a man who drinks straight up Scotch, it must be pretty potent. "I made it very mild, who in the—" He broke off and looked at his mother sharply. "Mother," he said with dark trepidation, "did you add more alcohol to the eggnog?"

"Heavens, no."

We looked at each other, baffled. Then who—

"Just brandy."

Ducky looked from his mug of lethal brew to his mother. "_How __much_ brandy did you put in?"

"Just a toddle."

"Define toddle," he said grimly.

I help up my hand. "Did the bartenders open any brandy?"

"Just one bottle. There was a third of the bottle left, I put it and the other remainders in the closet to deal with later."

"Hang on." I ducked outside and checked the recycle bin—and came back bearing not one, not two, but _six_ empty brandy bottles.

"Mother!" Ducky almost yelled. (No, strike that. Definitely a yell.)

"Well, Donald, your eggnog is very nice—but a little weak. It's for old ladies and schoolgirls!"

I almost swallowed my teeth to keep from laughing. (We never keep that much brandy in the house. I had a feeling that, come January, we'd be getting a bill from the liquor store down the way.)

"Mother, this would flatten the crew of an aircraft carrier!"

"Or one particular Marine," I said with a laugh. Fortunately, Gibbs hadn't been parked by the eggnog bowl. Other people, however, had been…

/ / / / /

The phone rang at a civil enough hour, ten a.m. The ladies of the household—from Suzy and Mother down to Charlie, all seven of us (Ziva had disappeared around eleven, but Abby had bunked on the couch for the night)—were chowing down on waffles, bacon, eggs and other goodies. The lone Y chromosome of the bunch answered the phone and the rest of us were treated to a one-sided conversation:

"Ah, good morning, Jethro!" (Pause.)  
>"We're fine… why do you…" (Pause.)<br>"Oh. Ah-ha. Yes, I discovered that last night—or, to be precise, this morning—" (Pause.)  
>"Oh." (Long pause, then he started to chuckle.)<br>"Oh, dear…" (Another long pause, full of more laughter.)  
>"Yes, I believe that's called 'a learning experience." (Pause, laughing, shaking head.)<br>"Yes—_perhaps_ by Christmas."

Sill laughing, he hung up and returned to the table.

After a minute of not quite silence (he was still snorting quietly to himself) I prompted, "Well?"

Ducky grinned. "Well, we know who went back for seconds on eggnog… thirds… probably more: Anthony."

"Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo?" Abby said with a slight smirk.

Mother perked up. "That's an Italian name!" she announced in delight.

"Jethro got a phone call from Anthony."

I frowned. "Sunday morning?"

"Yes. He was calling in sick. Gibbs' team… is _off_ for the weekend. Apparently Anthony wasn't sure of the day—but he left a message on Jethro's cell phone: 'I'm calling in dead. I hope.' Jethro said he sounded like he was… _rather_ hung over."

Abby grinned wickedly. "He didn't even realize it was _Sunday_… maybe we should call Tony. You know—just to make sure he's okay."

Ducky shook his head. "I wouldn't." He enjoyed a bite of syrup-kissed waffle. "Jethro thinks he might—_might_ be sober by Christmas diner…"

**2008**

_The __fourth __thing __at __Christmas __that's __such __a __pain __to __me:  
>Sending <em>_Christmas __cards,  
>Hangovers,<br>Rigging __up __the __lights,  
>And <em>_finding __a __Christmas __tree._

Oh, god.

I had _no_ idea what I was getting into.

When we got married in 2007, I was so wrapped up in running hither and yon with wedding plans, I totally spaced sending out Christmas cards. (Ducky had sent his out the beginning of November. Showoff.) I sent belated cards in February, catching old friends and far-flung relatives up on the news that I had finally tripped down the aisle.

Over the summer, we made plans for the next Christmas. The baby was due in September; wouldn't it be _darling_ to send baby-and-Santa pictures as our Christmas cards? Of course it would be! (Allie wasn't screaming and crying like a lot of kids do, but from the puzzled frown on her face I had the caption of, "Are you on Uncle Jethro's team? Are you working undercover?" in my head. It was still a cute picture. The inside picture of Mommy, Daddy, Grandma and Allie with Santa was even better. Allie was sitting up on Santa's lap and had her arms flung wide in a, "Yes, my adoring public, you may approach," gesture and a big ol' toothless grin on her face.)

While Ducky is very embracing of technology and he actually has a database for all of his addresses for Christmas, his backup list—the one from which any changes are made—is barely 20th century. He has a 2" deep digest-sized multi-ring binder with alphabet tabs and each person listed on a separate sheet of 4x6 heavy bond paper with neat blocks for name, address, phone—and, for the last couple of decades, email address. Many people have had addresses neatly lined out and reentered when they moved—some have 4 or 5 entries going on to the back side. Some even have a second or third sheet. He keeps the whole history—this notebook goes back to pre-college. The _fifties_, for heaven's sake.

I have a couple of hundred names in my address book (okay, okay, mine goes back to the sixties, schoolmates I actually keep in touch with). A lot of them are professional contacts. I keep in touch with a third or so of the people, exchanging Christmas cards (and getting those dreadful newsletters from some in return).

Ducky? He has over a thousand. Easy. Maybe fifteen hundred. And almost every single one of them sends a card in response. (Our first Christmas together, I saw hundreds of cards strung about the walls and figured he just kept a running line for several years. Ha. Ha, ha, _ha_. Wrong answer.)

I have to wonder—with Donald Mallard sending out cards world-wide (not to mention birthday cards all year long)… how the hell is the Post Office running in the red?

But, as noted, he updates his database regularly, so at least we can print out the labels.

Page.

Page after page.

Page after _page_ after page.

Page-after-page-after-page-after-will-this-_ever-_end-page—

(Stop, change printer cartridge.)

—page after page after page after _page__…_

"Do you even _know_ half of these people?" I muttered under my breath as I signed my part of 'The Mallards' over and over and over. (Charlie had volunteered to print the "and Alexandra" part that weekend and to help Mother with her part of the signing, too. I love that kid.)

"Of course I do," he said, mildly astonished. (I had forgotten about his superhuman hearing.)

"Of course you do," I sighed, reaching for another card.

**February,****2013**

_The __fifth __thing __at __Christmas __that's __such __a __pain __to __me  
>Five <em>_months __of __bills!  
>Sending <em>_Christmas __cards,  
>Hangovers,<br>Rigging __up __the __lights,  
>And <em>_finding __a __Christmas __tree._

With two nieces and two nephews, I knew long before I ever became a parent that Christmas with a kid in the house is a zillion times more expensive than Christmas without one, no matter how carefully you shop. It's just a law of nature, like E=mc2, gravity sucks and if you're trying to fill out a deposit slip on the way to the bank… all you hit are green lights. It was still a little stunning when we had statements from Visa, MasterCard, Citi, Discover _and_ all the store cards on the table at once.

"It's not the paying that bothers me," Ducky sighed, going through one of the statements line by line.

Yeah; I have a feeling Lexi's goodie pile was _still_ less expensive than the cost of printing and mailing all the Christmas cards each year. "It's not?"

"It's paying for toys in February that were broken by the second week of January."

"Planned obsolescence."

"Do they make toys out of cast iron?"

"You bet. Tonka trucks are indestructible."

He brightened. "Truly?"

"Yep. Didn't even chip paint when the kid next door used it with a roundhouse to Kevin's shoulder. Kevin, on the other hand, got a broken arm and twenty-six stitches… but the truck was _just __fine_…"

**2013**

_The __sixth __thing __at __Christmas __that's __such __a __pain __to __me:  
>Facing <em>_my __in-laws,  
>Five <em>_months __of __bills!  
>Oh, <em>_I __hate __those __Christmas __cards!  
>Hangovers,<br>Rigging __up __these __lights!  
>And <em>_finding __a __Christmas __tree._

You can _always_ tell. If your husband, wife, significant other, fill-in-the-blank comes up and starts rubbing your shoulders without any prompting from you… you can tell the difference between your better half is feeling warm and smushy and wanted to make you feel good—and your better half is trying to soften you up for something big. This was definitely the latter.

But, hey, I wasn't going to blow a good thing. I was pretty sure he wasn't going to ask for anything totally beyond question. He hadn't even mentioned having a second child beyond wondering if being an only child would be good for Lexi. (I pointed out that _he_ had been an only child and had turned out pretty fabulous. Game, set and match to me.)

"I'm glad your parents don't mind switching to Christmas dinner instead of Christmas Eve."

"Nah," I said lazily. (Ducky gives wonderful massages.) "It was a tradition only because of my grandfather. He'd have to be at the paper early morning, and wanted to see the kids open their presents. So they rolled dinner and presents together for Christmas Eve and it just sort of stayed in the family."

"Mmh. Charlotte came to an understanding with her late mother's family—she was not going to give up Christmas with us, especially after Alexandra was born. They were willing to accept Christmas Eve instead."

"_You_ had a lot to do with that."

He made a little "well, maybe" huff and continued to work on my sore muscles. Ducky had kept in touch with Mrs. Kemmelbacher after Charlie's going-away party in '07, gently helping her work through her prejudices and bigotry. That she—and the rest of the family—showed up at All Souls Unitarian Church in 2010 was nothing short of a miracle. "I'm just glad things are better. For Charlotte's sake."

"So am I."

Silence for a while as he kneaded and rubbed. "You know that the girls are all helping out at the Salvation Army dinner on Christmas Eve."

'The girls' always meant Lily, Ev and Charlie. "Uh-huh." Usually they helped out with the prep work for a few days before, but "Sally" had more than the normal amount of people showing up and they were short helpers. Ducky and I would be there, too.

"Well… ah… Charlotte was hoping… that it…" he stammered.

Ah. Now we're down to the nitty-gritty. "Yes…?"

"Could we make space for Mr. and Mrs. Kemmelbacher and the various aunts and uncles? For Christmas dinner, that is?"

That's all? "Honey—you're the one who's doing most of the cooking. I have no objections." Granted, she was still a little strained around Ev and Lily. It was reminiscent of Tom Lehrer's _National Brotherhood Week_ ("It's fun to eulogize the people you despise—as long as you don't let 'em in your school.")—but she was miles ahead of where she had been six years before.

He sighed, relieved. "Good." He leaned over and kissed my shoulder point. "I'm sure it will be a wonderful evening."

/ / / / /

In case anyone was keeping score:

Ducky.  
>Yours truly.<br>Lexi.  
>Mother.<br>Suzy Bailey. (With kids and grandkids to hit, this would be her third Christmas dinner of the day.)  
>My mom.<br>My dad.  
>Ray.<br>Barb.  
>Ray and Barb's kids: Sharon. Allison. Cory. Kevin. (Only Kevin was still at home. The others were starving college students and smart enough not to turn down a free meal.)<br>Leroy Jethro Gibbs.  
>All the Gibblets (as Abby called the group): Anthony DiNozzo (and girlfriend). Tim McGee (and fiancée). Ziva David. Abby Scuito. Dr. Jimmy Palmer. Mrs. Dr. Jimmy Palmer (Breena, who was expecting next spring). (They were there without Jimmy's mother, who had passed<br>away only this last summer. She was a very sweet lady; we all missed her.)  
>(The director, a gentleman I'd only met twice, had declined Ducky's invite, saying his family had their own Christmas traditions that he didn't dare change.)<br>Charlie.  
>Ev.<br>Lily.  
>Charlie's boyfriend (who would undergo much scrutiny, I was sure), a pleasant young theatre arts geek named Josh.<br>Mr. Kemmelbacher.  
>Mrs. Kemmelbacher.<br>Charlie's aunts and uncles: Evangeline. Rachel. Leah (who had scrambled up the courage to come out to her parents last year; another Ducky intervention success story). Luke. Matthew (who had been out of town and missed Charlie's send-off).

_Thirty-three people. _(We planned to eat buffet style.)

Ducky went with a huge turkey (traditional; his turkey is the bomb) and a roast beef that was almost as large. Side dishes by the dozen. Desserts almost as plentiful. If you went home hungry, you weren't paying attention.

Lexi and Charlie were dressed in older/younger sister matching dresses, dark green velvet (washable velvet; I'm no dummy) and white lace, matching white patent leather Mary Janes—and looked absolutely adorable. They walked down the stairs side-by-side; I don't know which was more stunning, the fact that Lexi was five or Charlie was fifteen. Lexi was in kindergarten… Charlie was graduating.

(Great. Now I feel old.)

"Uncow Jethro!" Manners flew out the window. Lexi made the last few yards at a dead run, plowing into Gibbs and knocking him back a step.

Before I could scold her, he scooped her up, laughing. "Hey, Peanut!" Hugs and giggles. "Was Santa good to you?"

_He_ knows that she knows there's no such thing as Santa. _She_ knows that _he_ knows that _she_ knows. Doesn't matter.

"Uh huh! I got a new bike, a _big_ bike. An' a gi_nor_mous thing of Stinkertoys." (Stinkertoys. Snort.) "An' Wegos. An' books an' books an' _books_! An' Mommy is going to make a wittow quiwt for the bed you made for my dowhouse, _just __wike __my __quiwt_!" Her eyes grew wide. "And the rocking chair—_it __wooks __just __wike __the __one __in __my __room_!"

He gasped. "It does? Imagine that!" (He took a dozen pictures over the summer.)

"It's the best dowhouse, _ever_!"

"Agreed," I laughed. "_I_ never had a dollhouse that cool." Gibbs had made a darn good dollhouse-sized replica of Mallard Manor and given it to Lexi for her third birthday. Each Christmas (heck, any holiday he could think of) her presents included furniture for the house. This Christmas had been the last bits for Lexi's bedroom, several pieces for the dining room and a few living room pieces. Ignoring the mess in the attic, he should have the house furnished by the end of next year. He even wired it so the lights light up and you can make water run in the sinks. This is going to be a family heirloom, something Lexi will want to pass on to _her_ daughter.

(Great. Now I feel _really_ old.)

Lexi leaned over his shoulder and cocked her head. "Hewwo. Do you work with my daddy?"

Mrs. Kemmelbacher looked startled and I realized, hey, yeah, this is the first time they've crossed paths. "Ah—no."

"Lexi… This is my grandmother, Mrs. Kemmelbacher," Charlie explained. "My mother's mother."

"Wike Nana is Mommy's mommy?"

"Right."

"Oh. Okay!" She grinned at the newcomer. "Hi!"

Mrs. K. smiled and even laughed. _Nobody_ is immune to my kid. "Hi!"

Lexi twisted back to Gibbs. "Is dinner soon?" she whispered. Loudly.

"Soon," he 'whispered' back. "Your daddy put the turkey and the roast on the table and I'll start carving—" He twisted his wrist. "Now, actually."

Lexi gave what I call her 'hot damn' hoot. "I _wuv_ daddy's turkey. He makes the best turkey!" She kept up a line of chatter about food all the way to the dining room. I was already hungry; with her commentary, now I was _starving_.

"Uh—Peanut, hold on a sec. Hey, Duck—where'd you put the turkey?"

We were behind Gibbs by a few people. Ducky gave a 'where else?' scoff and laugh. "On the table, of course."

"Sure about that?"

We slipped through the crowd at the doorway and I gasped. Both platters—turkey and roast beef—were empty. Only juices on the serving wear gave us a clue that they had been full at one time.

And the tablecloth and place settings were a little… askew.

"My _turkey_!" Ducky bellowed, hurrying around the table. He dropped out of sight.

"What the—" I tore around the other end of the table—and tried not to burst out laughing.

Ducky was sprawled on the floor grabbing futilely at a turkey that was halfway underneath the china cabinet. He'd pull it out an inch or two… and then it would be yanked back the other direction. From under the lowboy to his side, the butt end of the roast could barely be seen. Two arms—er, paws—stuck out from beneath the china cabinet, claws hooked into the bird. Back and forth they went, Ducky cussing and snarling and Foot (I recognized the fluffy white paws) snarling and hissing in response. (You didn't need a translation to know that Foot was cussing as much as (if not, more than) Ducky was.)

The roast was still edging toward the wall. I grabbed at it—then jumped back with a yelp as Siamese claws hit my hand. Pyewacket had taken early retirement and come to live with us and was probably thinking now he'd died and gone to heaven. An entire fifteen-pound roast, all to himself! "You ratfink!"

Ducky was still struggling with Foot over the turkey—and losing.

"Duck—I don't think anyone's gonna want to eat that bird," Gibbs said, trying not to laugh.

"It's the principle of the thing!" he growled. I'd never seen Ducky so, um, vehement before. I suddenly remembered my bridal shower, stories told by the then-NCIS Director, Jenny Shepard. At the time, I had doubted her tales of Ducky's derring-do; now, I had to wonder.

At that moment Tyson came dashing into the room, barking like crazy. This might get ugly. He skittered under the china cabinet—

—grabbed the turkey… and tugged. _Away_ from Ducky.

Two to one. Foot and Tyson won, Ducky landed on his butt, there were muffled giggles around the room—and I racked my brain, trying to think of who would be open on Christmas.

I looked around the crowd. "Um… pizza, anyone?"

**2014**

_The __seventh__thing __at __Christmas __that's __such __a __pain __to __me:  
>The <em>_Salvation __Army,  
>Facing <em>_my__in-laws,  
>Five <em>_months __of __bills!  
>Sending <em>_Christmas __cards,  
>Oh, <em>_geez!  
>I'm <em>_tryin' __to __rig __up __these __lights!  
>And <em>_finding __a__Christmas __tree._

"Thank you, dear…"  
>"Bless you…"<br>"Thank you, sir…"

Lexi tugged my arm as we crossed the end of the parking lot onto the sidewalk. Without asking (I didn't need to), I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of change. As we entered the mall, she dropped the change into the kettle, earning a, "Thank you, dear," from the woman ringing the bell. We were halfway into the shoe department when I realized Ducky was stopped just inside the door, looking back at the woman with a curious expression. "Ducks? Ducky?" No answer. "Ducky?" I called, a little louder.

He started slightly, smiled and joined us. "Sorry."

"Lost in thought?"

"A little… do you know where mall security is located?"

I stared at him. "Uh, yeah, mall offices are next to the movie theatre. What—"

"Why don't I meet you at—ah… where?"

"We're stopping at Gothix first."

"That will be fine." He gave me a smooch on the cheek and planted a kissed-fingertip tap to Lexi's nose and hurried off while I was left wondering what the hell was going on.

By the time Ducky joined us, Lexi had found a pretty black stretch lace top for Abby and I was debating over a vampire video game or a t-shirt reading, _DEAD __MEN __TELL __NO __TALES... __UNLESS __YOU'RE __IN __FORENSICS._ (I ended up giving her the game; Ducky gave her the t-shirt). "Okay. Spill it. What was that all about?"

"I was fairly sure I had seen that bell-ringer before and… I was correct. Do you remember a bit on the news a few years ago, a woman who set up a website where she blogged about her daughter having cancer? People donated thousands of dollars—hundreds of thousands—she even shaved her daughter's hair off to make it more convincing. The story she gave out was that supposedly she earned too much to qualify for Medicaid but her insurance had capped out."

Sad to say, it's a story I'd heard a couple of times over the years. Some people are so scummy. "I think so…"

"This one was almost local. Just outside Chantilly. Mary Cooper, the daughter's name was Melissa."

"I remember! So—did the Salvation Army get her on the right path?"

He shook his head. "I asked security if they had anyone ringing for donations. Yes, they do—four, one on each main entrance. There was some sort of mix-up, five people showed up. One of them said he was called to cover someone they thought couldn't be here anyway, so he would just go to his original assignment. When security contacted the Salvation Army… all four bell ringers assigned here today are _men_. And Mary Cooper is not with the group at all."

I sighed. "Merry Christmas," I said dolefully. Ducky draped an arm about my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. "How did you know? How did you recognize her?"

He looked down at me with an almost rueful smile. "_I_ was one of those who donated."

**2014**

_The __eighth __thing __at __Christmas __that'__s such __a __pain __to __me:  
>I <em>_WANNA __TRANSFORMER __FOR __CHRISTMAS!  
>Charities,<br>And __whaddya __mean,__ '__YOUR__in-laws?__'__  
>Five <em>_months __of __bills!  
>Oh, <em>_making __out __these __cards,  
>Honey, <em>_get __me __a __beer, __huh?  
>What, <em>_we __have __no __extension __cords?  
>And <em>_finding __a __Christmas __tree._

I'm dead.

I have died… and gone to hell.

I don't know what other description to give for a trip to Toys-R-Us… _the __day __before __Christmas_.

Mother had seen an ad for a super-deluxe-neat-o-keen-o-nifty-beyond-words jewelry kit and Lexi had fallen in love with it. Not just a big box of beads and charms and wire and crap (she had plenty of those)—no, this included a rock tumbler, polishing and grinding equipment, a big box of neat looking rocks and minerals and semi-precious stones and all sorts of stuff. (Adult supervision required. No, really?)

Ducky was sure _I_ had picked it up. I was equally sure _Ducky_ had picked it up. As we scrambled through the pile of toys we were wrapping, Mother was almost in tears. (Fortunately Lexi was at a Girl Scout Christmas Eve party all day—party, toys to the children's ward at the hospital, caroling—and wouldn't be done until almost eight, just in time for Emily mason to drop her off at church tojoin us for the second pageant performance.)

"We'll get it," I promised. "Call the store," I said in an undertone to Ducky. "I'm _not_ driving over unless it's there for dead certain." He tracked down one—_one_ out of four stores, got them to hold it and, with Lily, Charlie and Ev helping Mother wrap gifts (the woman turned 106 last spring; the fact that she knows it's Christmas is astonishing)… and we braved the biggest toy store in town at 4:41 p.m. Christmas Eve.

Okay—if we're nuts for crossing the threshold… what does that make the parents who entered Geoffrey's domain _with __children __in __tow_?

Ducky actually flinched back from the chaos. "I'm too old for this," he moaned faintly.

I grabbed the arm of his coat as he turned to run and I leaned close. "This is _your __mother_ wanting a special gift for _our __daughter_. There is _no __way __in __hell_ that I am going in alone. Got it?" I growled. He nodded wordlessly. Guilty? Terrified? I didn't care which. "March, Mallard!"

I couldn't blame him. I would have bailed, too, only he beat me to the attempt—so I had to be the brave one.

"One of us gets the box from the hold room, one stands in line." I've seen shorter lines for the women's room at the stadium. Disneyland, even. "Flip you for it." I pulled out a quarter; he called heads and I got to stand in line. He grabbed a stray cart to use as a battering ram, squared his shoulders and plowed into the fray.

I stood in line, trying to ignore the goings-on around me.

"Yes, ma'am, we _did_ get a shipment in this morning, but that was at eight, they were sold out by _nine_."  
>"So what was I supposed to do? Sleep on the goddamned sidewalk?"<br>"We had a hundred and twenty-seven people who _did_."

"I saw it first! Get your slimy hands off of it!"  
>"The hell you say, you may have saw it first, I <em>grabbed<em> it first, now, _give__it_!" (Poor grammar _and_ rude—two-for-one special.)

"Ma! Ma! Gimme the _Star __Wars_ Legos!"  
>"I told you if you asked for even <em>one<em> _thing_, you'd go wait in the car with your father!" (Wonder if _they_ flipped a coin, too.)

"Hey! 'at's my cart! You took that Barbie Penthouse and Barbie Corvette outta my cart! Put 'em back, you bitch!" (I stifled my giggle, suddenly thinking of the license plate holder that read, _I __want __to __be __Barbie, __that __bitch __gets __EVERYTHING!_)

"A-a-a-a-AH-AH-AH-AH-a-a-a! A-a-a-a-_AH-AH-AH-AH_-a-a-a! _A-a-a-a-AH-AH-AH-AH-a-a-a__!__"_

My spine stiffened and my fingers spasmed into claws as I heard a kid going into full tantrum mode.

"Christopher! _Christopher_! You knock that off this instant! If you don't shut up—I'll make Santa take all the presents back tomorrow!"

(Come on, lady. You take a Christmas-hyped-up kid into Toys-R-frigging-Us the day before Christmas and in a crowd just slightly smaller than the population of Rhode Island—and you're shocked when he has a meltdown?)

But the threat of Santa as something close to an extortionist worked. Christopher didn't really stop crying, but his volume dropped and he walked alongside the cart as his mother moved down the row, making hiccoughs and snuffly noises.

Trying to ignore the other squabbles, tantrums, hysterics and threats I stared straight ahead—and caught sight of the t-shirt in front of me:

_He knows if you've been sleeping…  
><em>_He knows if you're awake…  
><em>_He knows if you've been bad or good,  
><em>_So be good, for goodness' sake!_

_Santa Claus—kindly Christmas elf… or CIA spook?_

Hmm. Good question…

**2008 **

_The ninth thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me  
>Finding parking spaces,<br>DADDY, I WANT SOME CANDY!  
>Donations!<br>Facing my in-laws,  
>Five months of bills!<br>Writing out those Christmas cards,  
>Hangovers!<br>Now why the hell are they blinking?  
>And finding a Christmas tree.<em>

"Yes!" Ducky did a 'ka-ching!' fist drag and I laughed. "Prime real estate!"

"It's a parking spot, not beachfront property in Malibu."

"True—but it's the first spot right by the front door that's _not_ a handicapped spot!"

"True," I echoed. I waited a minute. "But we just _finished_ shopping, drove down from the parking tower—and were driving past the front of the shopping center to get to the other light at the other entrance. We're _done_ _shopping_."

He sighed. "That's right, burst my bubble…" He gave me sad puppy dog eyes.

I shook my head and tried not to laugh. "Well, it _is_ a bookstore, I'm sure we could find _something_…"

He grinned and bailed from the car. He was still happily muttering, "Front row parking spot!" over and over as we entered the store. If I could have put a bow on it, it would have been his favorite gift.

**2012**

_The tenth thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:  
>Batteries not included?<br>No parking spaces,  
>BUY ME SOMETHIN'!<br>Get a job, ya bum!  
>Oh, facing my in-laws!<br>Five months of bills!  
>Yo-ho, sending Christmas cards,<br>Oh, geez, look at this!  
>One light goes out, they ALL go out!<br>And finding a Christmas tree._

"I don't… freaking… believe this!" I snarled as I dug through the fridge.

"Nothing?" Ducky asked, doing a similar search through the junk drawers in the kitchen. (We had already torn apart the garage.)

"Nothing. Well, nothing that would help—you know, plenty of fruit, veggies, milk, cheese, you know—_food_? But batteries? Nada."

"I was so sure we bought some at BJ's the other month," he sighed, shutting the drawer with a tiny slam of irritation.

"We did. And we replaced the batteries in the remotes, the wireless mouse, half a dozen toys, CD players, radios…" My shoulders sagged. "Impossible as it seems, I think we used up all of them."

"We have two choices," he said as we headed back toward the living room. "Steal the batteries from everything else in the house… or go to one of the pharmacies or 7-11s that are open 365 days a year—"

"And pay twice what we would at Target or the supermarket—which is insanely higher than Costco or BJ's already? Thank you, no."

"Then we have to explain to Alexandra that until we get batteries tomorrow, many of her toys will not function."

I sighed. "I know she'll be pretty good about it—but this is _Christmas_. It's human nature to want to play with your toys on Christmas." He gave me a slightly wicked look. "Hey, sport—_we__'__re_ gonna need batteries, too." His naughty look became a thunderstruck one. "Yeah. Oops."

There was a peal of the doorbell. I glanced at the clock: 9 a.m., _way_ too early for even any of the NCIS contingent. I opened the door. "Paulie! What brings you here at this hour? You should be home, opening presents, having breakfast…"

When I first met him, Paul Sugarbaker had been a scrawny kid down the street who practiced shooting hoops day and night and regularly got hassled over his name. Over the five years since Ducky and I got married, "little Paulie" had shot up to be a 6'4" terror on the court. He wasn't as tall as some of the pros out there—but he was fast and he was accurate. And he was a polite, helpful and charming young man. "Good morning, Mrs. Mallard. Dr. Mallard." He grinned. "Already opened, already ate. I'm out drumming up business."

"Business? You already shoveled the drive and the walks—" Ducky looked at him curiously.

"Nah, this is Christmas morning business. Last year, my mom bought my little sister a bunch of toys that use batteries. And she forgot to buy the batteries. And I know she's not the only one who's done this, so…" He stepped aside to reveal his old wagon, brim-full of brown lunch bags folded into packets and neatly marked _AAA_, _AA_, _C_, _D_ and _9_. "I bought a ton of batteries at Costco and did my own packaging. Buck-fifty a bag. Four double or triple-A, two C, two D, or two niners. Interested?"

After we had giddily parted with the cash and Lexi was showing her grandmother how to operate her new robot, Ducky shook his head. "That young man," he proclaimed, "will go far in his world."

I nodded in agreement. "You can say that again."

**2011 **

_The eleventh thing of Christmas that's such a pain to me:  
>Stale TV specials,<br>Batteries not included?  
>No parking spaces,<br>DAD, I GOTTA GO TA BATHROOM!  
>Charities!<br>She's a witch...I hate her!  
>Five months of bills!<br>Oh, I don't even KNOW half these people!  
>Oh, who's got the toilet paper, huh?<br>Get a flashlight...I blew a fuse!  
>And finding a Christmas tree.<em>

Saturday morning. Christmas Eve was—gah!—only a week away. But thanks to the ever-organized Dr. Donald Mallard, we were ready to go. Boxes of decorations for the party and dinner stood stacked by basement door, ready to be opened and flung about the house. Presents were wrapped and _very_ well hidden. (Gibbs had volunteered his house as a hiding place for Lexi's toddler bike and then said what the hell, stash everything over here. It was a good thing, too, because Lexi and Mother had been busted no fewer than three times in their systematic searching of the house.) The lights were strung artistically all over the property (thank you, Abby) and the walkways and drive were kept clear of snow on a frequent basis (thank you, Paulie). Now it was just a matter of keeping our usual chaos under control.

I love my daughter to pieces—but it is, more often than not, easier to do things _without_ her help. I always find a couple of things during the day to specifically invite her to join in so she doesn't feel unwanted—but laundry is not one of them. It's just easier for me to hoist the basket and haul it down to the basement, even if it's three baskets. (For years Ducky had used a laundry chute—until one of the dogs managed to get in the swinging door on the second floor and fly all the way down to the basement. This was Taffy, a dog from many years past and long gone—the fall didn't kill her (it didn't even hurt her), but it scared the pee out of her. Literally. Ducky cleaned the chute from top to bottom—then did it _again_, two weeks later, when Puck (another former resident) did the same thing with the same result. (Apparently riding the laundry chute was the canine version of a roller coaster.) Ducky sealed up the entrance doors and started hauling the laundry to the basement manually; we were looking at building a laundry room off the kitchen because we were _both_ sick of this routine.)

So I was wandering past the living room, lugging Mother's laundry basket, and saw Ducky and Mother perched on the couch, watching TV. I could just barely see the top of Lexi's head from where she sat on her daddy's lap. He was keeping her occupied and out of "assistance" mode. They had played outside for quite a while, played in her art room after that; now it was TV time. Because of Christmas specials, we (we!) watched more than we usually did—but I was amazed; over the past couple of weeks I thought we had seen every Christmas special to appear on television. What was left?

I parked the basket and sidled over. "Whatcha watchin?"

It was some sort of animated show. Santa was pretty obvious, the elves were recognizable, and there was an ice skating snowman. Ducky canted his head back. "I… have… no… idea…" He sounded almost drugged. He gave me a glazed look. "We started off with _Frosty, __the __Snowman_. I remember _How __the __Grinch __Stole __Christmas_ after that…"

"Something we've seen at _least_ five times since Thanksgiving."

"Then there was _Pink __Panther__'__s __Pink __Christmas__… __Inspector __Gadget __Saves __Christmas__…_" I snickered. "_Santa __Versus __the __Snowman__… __The __Great __Santa __Claus __Caper__… _Starring Raggedy Ann and Andy," he clarified when he caught my look. "The oddest one by far was _Santa __Claus __Conquers __the __Martians_."

"Good plot?" I fought to keep from laughing.

"Words fail me."

"Why don't you… change the station?"

Lexi had been leaning against Ducky, watching the show through half-closed eyes. She abruptly sat up and cried, "No! It's a _good_ show!"

Even Mother gave me a pleading look. "Please? The snowflakes shall dance again, soon!"

Ducky's look was long-suffering. "_That__'__s_ why."

I leaned over and gave him a kiss. "I'll make it up to you later," I whispered.

"Too late. I will be brain dead."

"_Brain_ dead… I can work with." I gave him another kiss and a wink and, shaking my head, went back to the laundry. _Santa __Claus __Conquers __the __Martians_? I _definitely_ had the easier job.

**2015**

_The twelfth thing of Christmas that's such a pain to me:  
>Singing Christmas carols<br>Stale TV specials  
>Batteries not included?<br>No parking?  
>WAAAAAAAAAAH! WAAAAAAAAAAH!<br>Charities!  
>Gotta make 'em dinner!<br>Five months of bills!  
>I'm not sending them this year, that's it!<br>Shut up, you!  
>FINE! YOU'RE SO SMART, YOU RIG UP THE LIGHTS!<br>And finding a Christmas tree!_

We went through it all—some good, some… not so good.

It started the month Lexi turned three. All of a sudden we were hearing _Santa __Claus __is __Coming __to __Town_. Repeatedly. Repeatedly—and not necessarily on key.

Even when _I_ was in school, I hated sitting through Christmas assemblies. Each class sang one or two songs, then the entire school sang the finale (usually _The Twelve Days of Christmas_) and unless the sixth graders (who had developed a little more singing ability by then) really belted it out, you could still tell that the music teacher was pounding out a C chord—and the kids were hitting everything from A to G. (Ray always said grade school kids sing in the key of "L"—"It sounds like 'ell, doesn't it?")

Church choir and choir in junior and senior high school were a little better; you had to try out for those choirs, which kept out the kids who a, didn't want to and b, couldn't carry a tune with a handle on it.

Things didn't change when I became a parent. It was actually worse—in addition to sitting through several shows at school, there was practice time at home. Lots and lots of practice time. We worked hard to find a balance between supportive and saving out sanity. (One more year of _Santa __Claus i__s __Coming __to __Town_ and I, personally, will snap.)

I love my daughter. I _adore_ my daughter. I will even sing _with_ my daughter (and other family members). This does not mean sitting through the preschool and grade school shows was a joy. But I did it. So did Ducky. So did Mother, the first couple of years, anyway. (Later on, the video camera was a godsend.) And Ducky and I had the same trying-not-to-look-_too_-plastic smiles on our mugs that my parents had had all those years.

The year she hit five, she noticed—really noticed—the Christmas services at church. It took some verbal tap dancing to explain _why_ the choirs at church sounded so much better than the groups at school… without stepping on toes or hurting feelings, that is. (The littlest kids at church—first grade and below—still operated under Tom Lehrer's comment about the army (in this case, the singing groups) 'carrying the democratic ideal to its logical conclusion in the sense that not only do they prohibit discrimination on the grounds of race, creed and color, but also on the grounds of ability.' Second graders and above can try out for the choir; below that, _everybody_ sings—just like in grade school, whether you can or not and whether you want to or not.) Granted, that was the year the first grade kids sang _Away __In __A __Manger_ and in the three-second gap between the end of the song and the anticipated applause, the moment of silence in the church was broken by Drew Shryock piping up, 'I'm gonna sock you one, Conrad!' The applause was delayed while the entire church exploded in laughter (and Bitsy, Drew's mother, tried to sink through the floor). But the 8 p.m. pageant was very nice despite that less-than-holiday-inspired sentiment and Lexi couldn't wait to hit second grade and try out for the choir.

Girl Scouts, choir, karate class—each year, something new got added. Each year we ended up volunteering (ha!) for more stuff at school. Each year I swore there weren't enough hours in a day or days in a week… but things managed to get done. We bent the laws of physics to the point of breaking… but things got done.

Choir practice was twice a week, Tuesday and Thursday for the St. Cecelia choir (many years ago there had been a St. Matthew's choir for grade school boys—but it fell by the wayside before Ducky even moved to Virginia), 3:30 to 5:00. The junior/senior high choir (mostly girls and an occasional boy) practiced from 5:00 to 6:30. With both groups, it was abut an hour of actual practice and a half hour of screwing around. The adult choir had the Wednesday evening slot from 6:00 to 8:30 (they always had the toughest pieces and actually practiced the whole two and a half hours). From November through December, _everyone_practiced their usual days plus Wednesday from 5:00 to 7:00 and then the adults stayed on til 8:30. (And when you were practicing with the adults in the room, you didn't screw around—too many kids had parents in the adult choir.) Take-out became a way of life.

The songs Lexi was learning for school weren't the same as the ones for the church pageant; while I was still ready to bang my head against the wall over _The__Little__Drummer__Boy_ (heaven help us, the first graders were singing that at church, too), _Jingle__Bells_ and _Al l__I __Want __For __Christmas __Is __My __Two __Front __Teeth_, I was content to listen to Ducky play the piano while Lexi practiced _Angels __From __the __Realms __of __Glory, __Gloria __in __Excelsis __Deo_and _We __Three __Kings_ among other songs. Ducky helped her out by singing other parts, frequently drafting Charlie, Lily, Suzy or me to help Lexi stay on track. (Ev cheerfully admitted that she would be a hindrance, not a help.) And by sheer repetition we all learned new songs for the school show, songs for Hanukkah and Kwanzaa. (Nothing for Ramadan or Winter Solstice. Inclusive? Harumph.)

Lexi practiced any chance she got. She'd grab the trash in the kitchen, singing _Silent __Night_ as she went out and come back through the kitchen singing _Light __One __Candle_. (All those years of watching the Peter, Paul and Mary specials and I never noticed that was a Hanukkah song. Color me oblivious.)

"Deck the halls with hunks of Molly—"

Ducky almost dropped his tea on the floor. "Alex_an_dra!"

Lexi scampered back from the living room. "What?" She looked at him, baffled.

"Is _that_ what you're singing at school?" He looked at her in horror and I smothered a laugh.

She grinned. "Not _on_ _stage_…" She skipped off, singing, "The restroom door said 'Gentlemen…'" And laughing.

"Don't worry," I reassured him. "Don't you remember singing, 'Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg' as a child?"

He looked at me with an even stronger look of horror. "_No._"

"Oh. Maybe it was an American thing." He shuddered faintly.

From the hallway came: "Good King Wenceslas' car backed out, on a piece of Stephen…"

He grabbed my arm as I passed. "What if she sings the wrong lyrics?"

I shrugged and grinned. "I never did."

/ / / / /

Fortunately the "big shows" for the choirs are all on Christmas Eve; Christmas morning service is the usual times if it falls on a Sunday or 9:30 on any other day. (I don't even consider the 6:00 a.m. service. Get real.) Since we now celebrated Christmas _on_ Christmas, our schedule wasn't bothered in the least. The usual suspects would be there for dinner, and everyone was going to be at church with us for at least one go-round or another. And I do mean _everyone_.

Ziva was always comfortable coming to Christmas dinner at Ducky's even before I came into the picture. And Santa had always given her a stocking. But she had politely declined going to Christmas Eve service, saying it would probably be very crowded with people who didn't normally attend services, it wouldn't be fair, et cetera. So I was a little surprised to see her arrive at the house with Abby. Not unpleasantly surprised, just… surprised.

I pulled Lexi aside as everyone figured out the logistics of people and cars. "How did you get Auntie Ziva to agree to come with us to church?"

She looked me straight in the eye and, without a flicker of remorse, said, "I cried."

Heaven help her future husband.

/ / /

The pageant is pretty much the same every year. (Come on, it's not like they can change the plot.) They hunt through the high school kids to find a girl who is able to walk slowly (_very_ slowly) down the center aisle with a high school boy able to do the same by her side. She has to look ethereal and beatific; please, no face piercings or tattoos. She has to be able to sit for most of the pageant with her hands together, with almost no movement. (Joseph, at least, gets to receive the gifts from the Wise Men.) She has to look good in blue. The choir of angels standing on risers behind the manger has the same duty—stand still and look saintly. Fortunately they start with the biggest angel, often a former Mary. About ten minutes later, the two angels a half a head shorter join her, one on each side. And so it goes for the whole of the show until the littlest angels join them for the last ten minutes. I've always had a sneaking suspicion someone dropped some sedatives in those kids' punch; getting a 4 year old to stand darn near perfectly still for ten minutes _has_ to involve drugs.

But before the pageant we have the little kid classes doing their songs. No _Santa __Claus __Is __Coming __to __Town_ (it's a progressive church, but not _that_ progressive). _Little __Drummer __Boy_ (yea, only one more show—the kids only perform at the pageant times, not the midnight service), _Away __In __A __Manger_ (sans interruption this year), and _Silent __Night_, to name a few. The theory is that if they get the little kids through their part early on, if they start getting too restless the teacher can take them back to the classroom (or their parents). Seems to work, they've been doing it for years.

At key moments during the pageant the massed choir would come in with a song—my favorite is when the Wise Men are slowly walking up the aisle, each bearing a nifty-looking box, with the choir singing _We __Three __Kings_ to accompany them. It's especially nice because they pull three baritones from the adult choir to do the solos for the three Magi—and there is one dude whose voice is so low he almost rattles your seat. Awesome.

Before and after the pageant there's also a short sermon; the key elements are already woven in the show. (Because it's word-for-word the same sermon every year, there's no problem with Fr. Knowles doing the pageant sermons and Fr. Parker doing the midnight service; there's no way Fr. Doesn't-Shut-Up can run overtime.)

This year there was something a tiny bit different. After Mary and Joseph trudged back down the aisle and the angels slowly turned and filed off the risers and Fr. Knowles did the wind up… several members of the choir came out from behind the set (the manger having been set up in front of the chancel). The big plus to the pageant is the choir gets to dress down—no sitting in the loft in polyester robes and collars (or cassocks and surplices for the older members). But here they came, three groups of five each: three Cecelia girls and two older choir members from the junior/senior choir or the adult choir. Cecelia girls were in pale blue, older school kids in navy, adults in a royal blue that was almost black.

Ducky and I gasped at the same moment. Hands clasped before her and red-gold curls constrained by the wide white band that matched the separate oversized sailor collar of her robe, _Lexi_ was a member of the last group.

Charlie leaned forward from her seat behind us. "She's been practicing with me when you aren't around," she whispered. "She wanted it to be a surprise."

It worked. The choirmaster, usually so crazed in practice, was absolutely decorous. He held up a hand and the first group rang out with sweet, pure a cappella notes: "_Dona__… __nobis__… __pacem, __pacem__… __dona __nobis, __pacem__…_" The second group took up the lyrics while the first went on to the second line, then on to the third, singing the canon as a round. _Grant __us __peace, __grant __us __peace, __grant __us __peace__…_ They sang for several cycles, then ended with the fifteen singing one round straight through together. A moment of silence—then, as they say, thunderous applause.

I looked past Ducky; beside him sat his mother, frail, fading and so very proud. Next to her, "Uncle Jethro," nodding and looking quite pleased. By my side, Ducky, carefully dabbing at his eyes and totally unembarrassed.

A hand on my arm made me jump slightly. Ziva. I had totally forgotten she was sitting next to me. Little linguist that she is, she knew the meaning of the words and her eyes were a bit teary, too. She gave me a small smile. "Thank you."

Two words said it all. I gave her hand a little squeeze. "You're welcome."

As I said, we've been through all the shows. Some good—some not so good.

And some… out of this world.

* * *

><p>At one time, Lexi grumbled that from October through December when you go into the stores it feels like one big holiday mushed together. So, from Lexi and the rest of the family,<p>

_"Happy Hallogivemas!"_

and see you for the next chapter-hopefully sooner than this last one posted. (Well, it _was_ like 12 chapters posted at once; forgive me?)


	28. The Truth Will Set You Free

December, 2013

* * *

><p><strong>The Truth Will Set You Free, But First It's Going To Piss You Off<strong>

Cookies.

You would think that Girl Scouts would run the other way from them, given that their lives are consumed by cookie sales from winter through spring.

But, oh, no, Lexi's Daisy troop was having a cookie exchange for the holidays.

Don't get me wrong. I _like_ cookie exchanges. We do one at church, one at the store, one at Ducky's work, one at Lexi's school and one for Mother's Kennel Club group. But none of those groups has Hazel Dahl on the list.

If you've watched Food Network, you know Hazel. Every year she produces more cookies and candy than any other non-commercial kitchen on the planet. From November 1 through December 24 she stirs, browns, boils, bakes, rolls, cuts, scoops and decorates more sweet stuff than Willy Wonka and Sara Lee would want to tackle. Her garage boasts both a walk-in fridge _and_ a walk-in freezer; plus she has a double-oven six-burner stove and not one but _two_Hobart mixers (the kind that sit on the floor and are the size of a Smart car). (Ducky watches the yearly special with the kind of lust most men would cast toward the Playboy channel.) Granted, she delivers huge platters to all the police stations, fire departments, hospitals and charities within several counties, not to mention friends, relatives and neighbors, so there is altruism in her overachieving… but the idea of making two or three different treats _every__day_ for a month and a half, freezing them and assembling some 75 plus trays? Yikes.

Even for cookie exchanges, Hazel doesn't send just one batch of sugar cookies. She doesn't even send just sugar cookies and fudge. No, for the Daisy exchange she sent her daughter back with a card listing _eight_ kinds of cookies and _four_ types of candy that she would be sending.

Nudged by Hazel's list, most of the parents were sending more than one treat. I wasn't going to get into an anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better with Hazel (do I look that stupid?) but I _was_ sending three kinds of cookies and hard caramel suckers. I was just worried that Kim Lincoln's mother would throw in the towel.

Therese Lincoln is one of the nicest people you could meet. She owns a temp agency with four branch offices in DC and Virginia; when her husband died she found herself a single mom with a one-year-old baby and seventeen-year-old stepson whose mother was totally off the grid. She got Dustin through his senior year of high school and into college while learning the ropes of the temp business. The actual staff members of the agency (back then only one office) were understandably uneasy when she stepped into her husband's shoes, but they didn't need to be. She wouldn't have failed; she didn't have a choice.

But no matter how packed her schedule is, she will volunteer to drive you anywhere, will watch your kid over a holiday weekend, and will bring you soup and Jell-o when you're sick. But it's going to be canned soup and pre-made gelatin because for all her positive points… Teri can't cook and can't bake. Even boxed mac-and-cheese is a stretch.

So when we got to the library meeting room and found Kim waiting with two and a half dozen baseball-sized snowballs on a tray, I was surprised (to say the least). Teri probably asked a friend for help—and with the favors she's done everyone on the planet, who would say no?

"I decorated them!" Kim said proudly.

"Oh, Kimmy, they're lovely!" Big balls of… something… dredged in a ton of powdered sugar, each was topped with leaf-ish squiggles of green frosting and red hots—holly was my guess.

"We had powdered sugar _everywhere_," she confided.

"Yeah, our kitchen was kind of a mess, too." (Understatement.) "But it's fun, isn't it?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "I can't wait to try one!"

Untried treats. Cross your fingers, girls…

Not counting Hazel's offerings, we had over a hundred different kinds of treats. One leader, one assistant leader, twenty-eight girls—you can do the math. It was impressive, to say the least. The girls had been decorating shoeboxes for the past couple of weeks; when Carole and Mara started tallying up the "I will bring" cards, they hit all the stores, grabbed every shoebox available and had the girls each do _three_ boxes. After looking at the bags, trays and platters, Mara ran out and bought gallon-sized ziplock bags for the bagged goodies and we barely came out even.

Without prompting, Lexi volunteered her stash for the family party on Christmas. "We'll never eat aw of them before they rot."

"We could put them in the freezer," Ducky suggested. "Parcel them out over the next month or two…"

"Um—it's kind of full, Daddy."

"Halloween?" I reminded him.

"_Still_?"

"Well, it was half-price… and I was hungry when I went to the market!" I said defensively.

He shook his head. "I think sharing the cookies is a wonderful, _generous_ idea, Lexi."

"And we have recipe cards, too!"

"More sharing. I heartily approve."

Lexi had been eyeballing the snowball all the way home and while we cooked dinner. As Ducky cleared the plates and before she could ask, I said, "That snowball is probably some kind of cake and should be eaten soon. Would you like to have that for dessert instead of ice cream?"

"Yes, pwease! Thank you!"

"You're welcome."

The rest of us had ice cream with assorted toppings while Lexi tried to figure out how best to attack the dessert. Just before knife hit snowball, she stopped. "Would you wike a bite?" she asked politely.

"Thank you for offering." (My mother said when you hear your kid spontaneously use manners, it's a "yes, all my nagging was worth it!" moment. She's right.) "But, no thank you. I'm fine with my ice cream."

"There's only one—and you're the only Daisy," Ducky seconded.

Her manners duly noted, Lexi whacked at the ball with knife and fork. It was chocolate cake, pretty firm; maybe a brownie. I could see bits of chocolate and nuts throughout. Lexi took a big bite—

And her face froze.

Her mouth worked for a moment and her eyebrows scrunched up. She managed to politely spit the cake into her napkin. "Oh, dear. That bad?" Ducky asked.

She looked from one of us to the other. "It's okay, sweetie. It's just us; you don't have to worry about hurting Kimmy's feelings. Or her mom's."

"Oh, Mommy, it's _awfo_."

Guess Teri didn't have someone help her. "Is it burnt? Sour?"

She shoved it over. "Just _nasty._"

Didn't impel me to try it, but I did anyway.

_My_ face froze.

"Honey," I finally managed, "you try a bite." I pushed the plate Ducky's way.

The look he gave me was a combination of "are you trying to kill me?" and "are my insurance premiums up to date?" But he took a small bite—and looked at me in shock.

_Rum __ball?_ I mouthed. He nodded. (Lousy rum ball, too.)

"Well, it's not your fault dessert was a bummer. Howzabout Daddy dishes you up some ice cream instead?"

Her face cleared. "Oh, yes, _pwease_!"

"May I have more ice cream, Donald?" Mother asked timidly. Dang; she had cleared her bowl while we were taste testing the rum ball from hell.

"I'd say that can be arranged," he laughed. "Hot fudge again?"

She nodded enthusiastically and Lexi piped up, "Yes, pwease! And wots of whipped cream! Pwease," she quickly added. Mother nodded again. "Could Grandma and I watch TV and eat ice cream at the same time? _The __Grinch __Who __Stow __Christmas_ is on tonight…"

Close enough on the title… and it's only the eight zillionth time since Thanksgiving. "I guess so," I laughed.

"I'll bring out the dishes in a moment. You and Grandma get yourselves situated," Ducky said.

"And _I_ am calling Carole Eloy," I muttered.

There was more privacy in the kitchen. Carole was stunned, to say the least. Horrified. Rum balls handed out to five-year-old girls? Was Teri out of her mind? "I'll call Teri. You call Mara and get the phone tree started, will you, please?"

"No prob." I dialed Mara's number and got a similar reaction. I called my two phone tree parents; as I hung up the phone, it rang again.

Carole. Laughing. "You won't believe this."

"Try me."

"Teri was out of town for a conference. She told the new housekeeper—a very nice lady named Trinka or Katrinka, Russian émigré with pretty good English skills—to get something from the bakery and apologize for it not being homemade. Trinka/Katrinka figured the rum balls were nice and big so it would be like two or three kinds of goodies rolled into one. She didn't think the rum was really rum, just flavoring—like butter rum Life Savers. Teri was aghast. Embarrassed. Mortified."

"No harm, no foul. I can't imagine any of the girls eating it. It was, to be kind, vile. Lexi couldn't spit it out fast enough."

"Huh. I'd better call Teri back."

"Why?"

"I want the name of the bakery—so I can avoid them!"


	29. It's Scary To Think That People Who Read

Spring, 2015

* * *

><p><strong>It's Scary To Think That People Who Read The National Enquirer Are Among The Elite Few Who Read At All<strong>

There's a nice strip mall not too far from home that we like to frequent. It has a couple of big "anchor" stores that we like (Barnes and Noble _and_ Deutsch Discount Books (they popped into existence a few years after Borders closed their doors)) and a number of oddball non-chain stores: Grandma's Place (homemade ice cream and candy; a little pricey, but worth it), Mrs. Tiggy-Winkles (kids toys; also pricey, but stuff you will never find at Toys R Us), Spinning Wheel (yarn, thread and stuff like that for needlework), Pen and Palette (art and crafts supplies), The Beadery (beads, beading supplies, jewelry supplies) and a number of other neat places.

And… King Arthur's Round Table. The biggest, baddest, coolest buffet in town.

(Plus—kids five and under eat for free.)

While Charlie was—and still is—small for her age, Lexi was—still is and probably always will be—tall for her age. Barely an ounce of fat on her, the kid eats like a famine has been declared and she's starting it. Of course, after clearing her plate (often twice) and tossing down dessert, she'll go out and ride her bike, roller skate or just _play_ and burn off enough calories to light the house for a week (thus giving her an appetite for a bedtime snack, of course).

After watching Lexi eat her way through the salad bar, carving station, pasta bowls and desserts for four years or so, I'm sure the manager jumped for joy when she hit six. Heck—$2.99 (ages 6-9) was _still_ a smokin' deal.

The first and third Wednesday of every month is what they called "in-service" days for the schools. I'm not entirely sure what they are doing—but classes let out at noon, leaving a lot of working parents scrambling. We frequently have two or three kids coming home with us, but half the time it was just the two of us. If Mother feels up to the trip, she and Suzy will join us; if not, Lexi and I would have a "Mommy and Me" lunch out, invariably at King Arthur's.

Situated smack in the middle of the school district, a lot of kids and parents drift over for lunch on the early-out days. Lexi and I would hit B&N and DDB first (hey, just because I have the biggest used book store in the tri-state area doesn't mean I have _every_ book under my roof), then cruise down the walkway to King Arthur's. Since we had already talked (and talked and talked and _talked_) on the way from school, we didn't feel the need to carry on a conversation as we ate. Lexi would stick her nose in one book, I'd prop open another one and we'd read and nosh (occasionally broken by, "Oh, listen to this—" from one or the other of us, followed by a choice bit of dialogue, usually humorous, sarcastic, ironic or punny (I have _no_ idea where she gets her fondness for such writing! (said in tones of great innocence)) and while away an hour or two before heading home.

One lovely spring day I had found a remaindered anthology of "cozy" mysteries and Lexi had stumbled over her own collection of _Can __You __Solve __It?_ five-minute mysteries and we were both half ignoring our desserts (bread pudding for me, pineapple pie for her) when I had that twitching hair on the back of your neck feeling. I glanced casually around; across the way sat a woman several years younger than I and a young boy a couple of years older than Lexi. He was engrossed in a hand-held game of some sort; she was covertly staring at us with a mixture of fascination and confusion. Thus caught, she blushed and added embarrassment to the mix.

No harm, no foul. I gave her a pleasant smile and returned to my book. Half a page later I had that same creepy feeling "Every Breath You Take" gives me. I turned the page and glanced over.

She looked abashed again, but managed to speak. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to stare, but—how do you _make_ her _read_?" she blurted out.

Now _I_ was the one staring. "Ah—" I glanced at Lexi, who looked like she was going to laugh. "It's not a matter of making her _read_. It's making her _stop_."

She looked astonished. "Really?"

"Oh, her father and I have to turn of he light several times a night. Then she'll pull out a flashlight and read under the covers. We'll go up and take it away—then the second, the third, the fourth—" Lexi shook her head. "No?"

"All I have is my Girl Scout campout flashlight, my pink one from my last Easter basket, my green one from my stocking—and my book light. The switch on my purple one broke off and the casing split." (If we were really upset about this nighttime routine, we wouldn't stick replacement flashlights in her baskets and stockings, now, would we?)

"That's right. So—after _three_ flashlights, she switches to her book light."

"It's my last resort," she chirped. "It doesn't cast enough light. I'd rather have the room lit."

"Did you—did you take away her video games? The TV? How did you _do_ this?"

Okay, she was way off target. She wasn't even on the board. "No—we have TV. And cable. And computer games. They're just _in__addition_ to books. Not _instead__of_. And books are in addition to video games, TV and so forth, not instead of. But books are more popular in our household." I was just warming up. "My husband and I are both avid readers. So is his mother, she's a hundred and seven, has an active library card, reads an hour or two, minimum, each day, and liberates books from my store on a regular basis," I said proudly. Victoria has been on a gentle slide since I first met her, but she's hanging in there. Every book she reads is new to her, even her old favorites—but she's still in the game, swinging. "Lexi grew up the way all of us did—being read to, reading along with, then reading on her own." (She still enjoys bedtime reading with Mom and Dad. When she gets "too old" for that, I will cry my eyeballs out.) "Do _you_ read?"

She looked almost indignant. "Of course I can read."

"No, no, of _that_ I'm sure. But do you read? For pleasure? After dinner is over and the dishes are done, do you put your feet up and get lost in a book? Do you get up early on the weekend to get first dibs on the paper—or get back into the book you were reading the night before?"

She looked vaguely uncomfortable. "I usually have work to do…"

"Well… monkey see, monkey do," I said lightly. No sense in pissing her off. "Extra reading time is a reward."

"If I get a hundred on my spelling test on Friday, I get to stay up until ten!" Lexi said excitedly. "I've only missed one Friday this whole year!"

You could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. "Very good job."

"And for math tests, anything above 75 gets fifty cents credit toward books." (We working to bring up her math grade. It's been a struggle with division especially.)

"That way I don't have to use _my_ money," Lexi boasted. (Not like we ever said 'no' to buying books. Her monthly newsletter at school never goes back with fewer than a dozen books ordered. Now, if she asks us to make a special trip to a bookstore, that's when she taps her credit. So far she's only had to do it twice.)

"And extra chores are a bid process. She has the choice of cash payment—or double the amount in book credit." Worked for Jerry and Chanda; works for us.

"Most interesting…" Nodding to herself, the mom turned back to her son. "Brian, are you going to finish that?"

"In a minute, in a minute," he groused, thumbs flying.

Lexi's eyes widened and she ducked back into her book. Okay, all of us tease one another and have comments like that—I'll call her rotten kid, she'll call me evil non-stepmother—but we know it's teasing and anyone around us can tell that it is, too. This was 'dissing,' pure and simple. And that doesn't fly in _our_ house.

Mommy pressed her lips together. "Brian!" she said sharply.

With a martyred sigh, he paused his game and set it aside. He shoveled down chicken nuggets and fries, then gulped down the rest of his soda. (If you aren't going to enjoy any of King Arthur's specialties, why bother coming here? A kid's meal at Mickey D's would be cheaper.) "I'm done. Can we go?"

Lexi burrowed further into her book. (If you don't witness the crime, you don't have to tell the cops what happened.)

Lunch was apparently a wakeup call for Mommy. She gave me a long, speculative look. "Thank you. You've given me… quite a lot to think about."

Something in her voice made Brian—already out of the booth—stop and look up from his game. "Whut?" he said sullenly. She didn't say anything. "_Whut_?" he repeated. She just put a hand on his shoulder and urged him forward. He gave me a glower as he passed.

When they were well out of earshot, Lexi leaned over the table. "If she takes away his Nintendo, he's gonna put a hex on you," she whispered.

I sighed and cut off a bite of bread pudding. "I don't think he could read he spell book."


	30. You're Never Too Old To Learn Something

October, 2014

* * *

><p><strong>You're Never Too Old To Learn Something Stupid<strong>

"Ballerina?"  
>"No."<br>"Witch?"  
>"No."<br>"Puppy?"  
>"No."<br>"Cat?"  
>"No."<br>"Washing machine?"

(I remember reading a YA book titled "Claudia." One of the characters made a Halloween costume that was a washing machine; the front door opened and you stuffed the candy inside. I thought it was ingenious. I still do.)

"No."  
>"Hermione?"<br>"No."  
>"Professor McGonigle?"<br>"No."  
>"Professor Dumbledore?"<br>"_Mom-_my!"  
>"Sorry…"<p>

"I want to be _different_. I want to be _original._"

Different. Original. Hmm. When she was one, she went as 1/3 of the Andrews Sisters. Two was Zazu, the smart mouthed bird from _The __Lion __King_. Three? Violet Parr from _The __Incredibles_ (with Mom as Helen/Mom/Elastigirl). Four was Astrid from _How __to __Train__Your __Dragon_ (complete with a remote control dragon that spouted lines from the movie, courtesy her Uncle Tim). Kindergarten was _two_ costumes—one for school (following school rules) and one for trick or treat. School was Wednesday Addams, complete with headless doll (I'm still amazed I didn't get a call from the school shrink on that one); for trick or treat, the dragon from a Chinese New Year's parade.

This year she wanted something that could cover both bases—_plus_ the Brownie party. School rules: no masks, no weapons (not even a phaser—except maybe the old _Star_ _Trek_ ones that looked like a TV remote control), nothing vulgar ("Vulgar?" Ducky questioned. "Nice that they can be so specific." "Eye of he beholder," I said drily.). Scouts rules: nothing vulgar (still nice and undefined), no flames or fireworks (how did the school miss that one?), no obstructive masks and no realistic guns or knives.

"Cheerleader?"  
>"No."<br>"Monkey?"  
>"No."<br>"Hockey player?"  
>She didn't bother saying "no," just gave me 'a look.'<br>"Sports car?" I suggested desperately.

She sighed heavily and left the kitchen. Obviously I was _no_ help. Some five minutes later Ducky wandered in. "Good. I need input."

He shuddered expressively. "Please. Not Halloween costumes."

"You, too? No, I need dinner ideas."

"Almond lemon chicken?" he said hopefully.

I nodded. "Fine by me," I said amiably. "We haven't had it in a while."

He gave me his most winsome smile. "I'll make fried rice…"

"You're on."

We joked back and forth while we cooked, the comfortable give-and-take you get after several years together. Married seven years as of this next December and it feels like forever. ('In a good way,' she hastily adds to anyone listening.)

"I've got it!"

Ducky flinched and almost dropped the cutting board he was carrying to the stove. "Good heavens, Alexandra! Inside voice, please!'

"Look! _Look!_" She plopped onto the middle of the kitchen floor.

I almost tripped over her. "Hey, traffic cone, move it to the table or you're going to get a bath of lemon juice."

She scrambled up and dashed to the breakfast table. "Look!"

She had brought in one of Ducky's numerous photo albums, this one from our trip to California the summer before she entered kindergarten. We spent time with family and friends, Victoria got a chance to see the few people she'd known from years ago who were still on the flower side of the daisies—and we all got a chance to meet Desiree, Fran and Cal's little girl. (I was so accustomed to Lexi, who was leapfrogging through the growth charts so fast I couldn't keep her in clothes, that I forgot babies start off tiny.) It was also an opportunity to see Mary in action as she painted the walls of her granddaughter's room.

Lexi was pointing to a shot of the north wall. About a third of the way over from the left stood a beautiful, elegant woman in a long, flowing, delicate gown that swirled about like mist. She looked up toward the pale morning sky, one arm gracefully arched above and in front, fingers gently curved as though she were casting the gentlest of spells or had just tossed coins into a fountain. Far away, starting at the end of the north wall and continuing onto the east wall was a pale, pastel sparkling rainbow. The beginning was a high point of the arc, a perfect continuation of the path to the woman's fingers.

"I want to be Aunt Mary's rainbow fairy!"

Hmm. It wouldn't be as hard as, say, turning an Erté drawing into reality. But is was probably beyond my sewing and arts and crafts skills.

But not beyond the abilities of some of her doting Aunties in D.C….

We spent all the next day shopping. Charlie found a full bolt of sparkle organza knocked down to a buck a yard because one edge was horribly damaged for a good six inches deep. It was the selvage edge, so that still left us with 36 inches or so down the middle. Workable. Ev sweet-talked them down to ten bucks for the whole bolt; we were buying yards and yards of chiffon (even with the weekend coupon, not cheap), fabric dye, fabric paint, glittery stuff and a whole carload of other crap (including silk thermal long johns that we would dye lavender—it's _cold_ around Halloween!) so I'm sure the owner chalked up the organza to "goodwill."

Lily and Ev put their years of ECS and SCA to good use, spending a week creating frames for the wings that had to be 1) lightweight (she'd be wearing these pretty much from dawn 'til late at night), 2) sturdy (she already knew playing at recess would be out—but she _is_ in the first grade; sturdy is a must) and 3) easy to put on and take off, even if adult assistance is needed (sitting at her desk was one thing; wearing those wings would not fly (no pun intended) in the girls' potty).

While Lily and Ev were pulling off what I considered an impossible task, Lexi and I spent every afternoon in her art room experimenting with everything from magic markers and finger-paint all the way to fabric dye and food coloring. After a number of trials (and errors), we finally decided on acrylic paints diluted and shot through spray bottles set on fine mist.

Ev managed to get 3 full sets of wings made. Since they couldn't be hemmed and sealed unless they were actually on the wing frames, we had one set to work on and two for "Oh, ~*+#^ ! I really +#%{ed up!" backup. Even still, I was a nervous wreck over painting them and +#%{ing up.

Lily and I were upstairs in the bathroom, painting, while Lexi stood on the coffee table downstairs, turning by inches while Charlie pinned up miles of hem and Ducky and Ev worked on a wand with multi-colored fibre optic strands and super-thin ribbons. Mother supervised us all.

"If we get the wings wet and paste them against the wall of the shower, we can make sure they're totally even and have the rainbows match," I suggested.

"A most excellent idea," Lily agreed.

Shower? Bathroom? Why the bathroom? Well, it has more room than Lexi's "loft"—Lily and I could work on them almost side-by-side. It also has running water—with a sprayer attachment. It beats working outside—no breeze. And, though I love her to bits, Mother wouldn't be able to "help" if we worked upstairs. (Though we made sure to scurry up and down with regular reports for our boss.)

There are only eight colors in the rainbow, but Mary has some lovely blends and variations in hers so we loaded up twenty-two spray bottles with diluted paint and set to work. True, it would have been easier to use a pressure sprayer, but this way we had all the colors ready to use. It took quite a while to finish; we'd spray a line on each wing, step back, check the balance, then go back and tweak as necessary. Color by color they grew until we were satisfied with the result, then we added a layer of shimmer dust to bring back the sparkle and we waited until it was tacky but not dry and _very_ carefully peeled them from the wall.

They were pretty damned nifty, if I do say so myself.

I carefully marched them downstairs while Lily set to scrubbing the still damp paint from the bathroom tile. Lexi squealed as I walked past and Charlie had to remind her not to wiggle around. "Mommy! They're _beautiful_!"

"Fantabulous," Charlie agreed.

Mother reached out a hand. "They're still wet," I cautioned and she stopped.

"Are they real?" she whispered.

"No, they're just part of Lexi's costume."

"They _look_ real…"

Ducky always looks admiringly on anything I do (the man is good for a girl's ego) but even he was astonished. "Oh, Cassandra, they're amazing. Marvelous. Lexi will look like Mary's painting come to life!"

(The fact that Mary had based the rainbow fairy on Lexi didn't hurt.)

But every artist likes praise, even if we're copying someone else's work. "Thanks, sweetie. I'm going to hang these in Lexi's Loft to dry for the night."

"I'll get the door for you," Ev said, springing up from the floor.

"Thanks."

"You guys did a great job. How did you get them so even? Measure the stripes?"

"Nope. Mirror image, sort of." I described how we spread the wings on the tile wall and painted them. "Makes cleanup a snap."

"Yeah, it's a good thing you have that new bathroom," she laughed, opening the kitchen door.

I stopped on the back porch. "What?"

"The bathroom. The one you guys added when you expanded the master suite?" she said, leading the way to Lexi's art room.

"Does it matter which bathroom we used?"

"Well, sure, the other bathrooms are _old_—excellent shape, but _old_. The tile doesn't have any glaze, the grouting is ancient; you put paint on that and it would be like a sponge…"

By the time we joined Lily it was a lost cause. Oh, some of the paint came off, but a lot had seeped into the blank slate of cream tile that had been there for decades. (The grout _really_ soaked it up.)

Fortunately, Ducky thought it was funny as hell. Mother insisted on being helped upstairs for a firsthand look and said it was actually quite pretty and we should just keep going and paint the whole thing on purpose. We did—and it ended up the most popular bathroom for any party we threw from there on out.


	31. Dorothy:  Hate You, Hate Oz

A/N: Thank you, Tallis224 for your assistance! (Tallis with the assist; Kitty shoots, she scores! Oh, I am definitely punchy from lack of sleep, am I not?)

April 6, 2013

* * *

><p><strong>Dorothy: Hate You, Hate Oz, Took The Shoes And Went Home – Toto<strong>

I love my daughter…

(The earth just shook from every parent on the planet adding "BUT…" to the end of that sentence.)

I love my daughter—BUT… There are times she's going to put me in an early grave. Or, worse, all of us.

Eeeeeeeeeee…

"Shut up," I groaned, turning over and burying my head under the pillow. Beside me I heard a foggy, "Wha…?" from my beloved husband.

_Eeeeeeeeeee…_

I smacked the alarm clock to the floor. What the hell was it doing, going off at such an absurdly early hour anyway? (And on a Saturday, no less.)

**_Eeeeeeeeeee…_**

I sat up in bed. Confused. Pissed. Tired. The clock on the floor flashed 05:26 at me. Mocking me. I vowed to bury it in a shallow grave.

**_EEEEEEEEEEE…!_**

Ducky bolted upright and we gasped at each other in the dawning horror of comprehension.

"Fire—"

"Shit!"

"—alarm—"

"SHIT!"

"—in the kitchen!"

I beat him downstairs. (I tripped and went ass over eyebrows for three-fourths of the trip, that's how.) Downstairs wasn't quite filled with smoke, but it was getting there. Two kitchen fires in a year and a half, if that's not the record, I sure as hell don't want to beat it.

Ducky bolted for the kitchen; I headed toward Mother's room.

She was dead asleep. Fortunately, just dead _asleep_, not—well, you know.

"Mother? Mother?" I shook her gently, then not so gently. "Mother!"

"What?" she snapped, reluctantly coming to consciousness. Not a happy camper when she first wakes up.

"There's been an accident. There's a fire in the kitchen. I have to get you outside." Thank heavens it was a nice spring night. Uh, morning. Whatever. "Here…" I helped her on with her robe and outside slippers and got her her cane. (Her walker would have been faster, but she refuses to use it unless we're on a long trip—and it would take longer to argue with her than it would to get her outside just using the damned cane.) It took a couple of minutes, but finally I had her out on the porch. "Wait." I ran to the side of the house and came back with a patio chair. "Sit. _Do. __Not. __Move._ Understand? _Don__'__t __move_ until Donald or I come for you. Promise?"

"Cassandra—"

"Please, I don't have time, just sit here and don't move, promise me, _promise __me_, cross your heart!"

She crossed her heart, looking at me with wide, scared eyes. "I promise."

I tore back into the house and into the kitchen. I was met by a wall of smoke not a wall of flames, thank heavens. The flames seemed contained to the stove, where Ducky was liberally applying the fire extinguisher spray and yelling, "Out! Outside, _now!_"

Lexi was hiding under the kitchen table, huddled in a ball and screaming as well. "Daddy, make it _stop!_" The fire alarm, stuck above the doorway into the kitchen, was so loud it pretty much drowned them both out.

First things, first. I reached under the table, hauled Lexi—arms wrapped protectively, if ineffectively, over her ears—out and pulled her into the hallway. "Outside! With Grandma on the porch! Now!" I pushed her toward the doorway and didn't wait for a response. I ran back to the kitchen and dragged a chair to the doorway. Tears streaming down my face from the smoke and the ear-splitting pain of the siren only inches away, I finally managed to yank off the cover and pull the battery from its' tab.

Silence. Blessed silence.

Mmmh… not quite.

There were still some loud (_very_ loud), interesting words (it sounded more like the old, pre-parent _me_ in there) coming from the kitchen. And, now, from outside came sirens, sure to wake the neighborhood (anyone who slept through the alarm, anyway). Shoot me, please.

Before I could get out of the room, thundering herds of yellow-jacketed firemen came storming through the house, yelling and pointing. Omigod—Lexi! Mother!

"Ma'am, ma'am, you need to get out—"

"I am, I am!" I bolted out the door.

"Wet her go, wet her _go!_" Lexi was screaming, beating on the hip of a fireman.

The fireman in question was trying to haul Mother off the porch. "Ma'am, it's not safe, let me—" he was saying loudly.

Mother was louder than the both of them. "No! Cassandra said to stay here! I crossed my heart. I crossed my heart!" she sobbed as she tried to pull away from the fireman.

I tried not to shove the fireman aside—he was only doing his job. "Mother? It's okay, it's okay, now, come with me."

Her shrieks stopped. "All right, dear." She took my arm.

"You, too. Right behind Grandma." Throat burning like—ha-ha, fire—I led them down the driveway.

A paramedic met us halfway. "Ma'am? Ma'am, come with me, I have a comfortable place for you to sit."

Mother looked at me. "It's okay to go with him," I wheezed.

"You, too, ma'am." That was aimed at me. "We need to get you checked out."

"I'm fine—"

"No, you're not," he said pleasantly. "But you will be."

"My husband—"

"Is on his way out right now." He pointed up the drive where a fireman was helping Ducky—bent over, coughing, barely able to walk—from the house.

The next half-hour was organized chaos. Neighbors spilled from their houses, paramedics treated the three of us (Mother was just fine—except for accusing the paramedic of getting fresh with her and trying to whack him with her cane) and in the middle of it all the chief came out with a plastic tub containing the cause of the fire.

"These were inside the oven—which was cranked up to 500 degrees, I might add." He squatted down next to Lexi, who had her arms around Ducky and was hanging on for dear life. "Are these _yours_ sweetheart?"

Charred remnants only, but still identifiable: her favorite fuzzy purple robe and slippers. Lexi's lip quivered. "Yes."

"Was there a reason you put them in the oven?"

She sniffled. "I wanted to warm them up."

Ducky groaned faintly.

"Well… I can understand what you were trying to do, sweetie… but I think Mommy and Daddy are going to want to talk to you about better ways to warm up your slippers." You bet your sweet asbestos Mommy and Daddy are going to have a talk.

Ducky and I were both beyond words. Didn't stop us from using them, though.

"You _know_ better than this! How many times have you been told to _never_ use the stove unless there's an adult present?"

"It wasn't the stove it was the _oven!_"

"Don't play semantics with me, young lady! Have you _ever_ seen anyone put clothing in the oven?"

"Yes! Mommy did!"

Crap. I knew exactly what she meant, too. "Those were your sneakers. I washed them and I didn't put them through the dryer because they make an ungodly noise. I kept them in the oven on very, _very_ low and never left the kitchen and explained to you _why_ this was an unusual situation. But it doesn't matter _what_ you put in there, you have been told to _never_ use _any_ appliance _ever_ without Daddy or Suzie or one of your aunts or me or even Uncle Jethro, for god's sake!"

She started to cry. "I'm _sorry!_"

Visions of all of us going up in flames were still fresh in my mind. Ducky's, too. "Alexandra, a simple apology is not enough! Do you have any idea what almost happened? The house could have burned down! You're lucky not to have been hurt—or worse! To come through with only a cough and an earache from the alarm isn't just luck it's a miracle!" He was so upset he was shaking. He sank into one of the living room chairs. He deals with death every day; it was too easy to imagine the worst outcome.

I was _this __close_ to saying or doing something I would deeply regret. Saved by the bell—literally. I grabbed the phone, snarling, "Mallard residence!"

"Ooh. Did I wake you up?" Ev said apologetically.

"Not a chance. We were up at five-thirty!"

"Uh—you don't sound real happy…"

"I'm not! Lexi tried to warm up her robe in the oven and damned near burned down the house!"

"Holy shit! You guys okay?"

"Miraculously, nobody is dead." The enormity of it hit me. I followed Ducky's lead and lowered myself into a chair.

"We'll be there a-sap."

"No, it's—"

"Have you had breakfast? Will you be _able_ to have breakfast?"

I thought about the kitchen… and burst into tears.

"We'll bring you takeout, baby. And a cleanup crew."

"Thank you," I sobbed. I hung up and looked at Ducky. "Evelyn," I managed around my hiccoughy sobs.

"Are they—is everything—"

"They're—they're fine." I tried to pull myself together. "They're—they're bringing _breakfast!_" I began to weep again. So much for pulling myself together.

Ducky came over and put his arms around me. "I know. I know." He was crying, too.

So was Lexi. She hadn't stopped, really; now she was crying harder. She flung herself at us, bawling her eyes out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm _sorry!_"

I grabbed her arms and gave her a sound shake. "Never! Don't ever! Ever! Do! Something! Like this! Again!" I was screaming and sobbing, hysterical and terrified beyond belief. I thought I'd been scared shitless before in my life. Pfft. That was nothing. I grabbed her, held her tight.

We were still a huddled mass when Ev and Charlie and Lily arrived. "Where's Grandma?" Ev asked.

"Mrs. McKirk's." I had calmed myself to a certain degree but started sniveling again. "Oh, Ev… everything will stink of smoke!" Talk about trivial concerns…!

"Not for long," she said cheerfully. "The cavalry is coming."

"Hunh?"

"I called Abby. Abby is calling everyone else—and then some. Everyone from Gibbs' team—"

"Oh, no, _no_," Ducky objected.

"Ducky—do you think even _one_ of them would stay away? This is your family, you dolt. Families take care of one another when shit happens." She made a face. "Oops. Sorry."

He laughed. "No worse than anything said earlier, my dear."

Charlie took Lexi's hand and gently pried her away. "Why don't we go upstairs for a bit. I'm sure they'll call us when breakfast is sorted out." She smoothly led her upstairs; Auntie Charlie would listen much more calmly than Mommy or Daddy could, I'm sure.

"Since it's more than just the seven of us, we were going to skip drive-thru and call in to that diner over by The Quilter's Basket. I'm going to go see if Mrs. McKirk would mind hosting the food brigade. She's invited, too, of course. But the smoke wouldn't lend itself to anyone's appetite, I think."

"I think you're correct." Ducky managed a smile. He gave Ev a big hug. "Thank you."

The day passed in a blur. People came and went; bit by bit things improved. A quick wash of the walls, well-placed fans and a hefty dose of Febreeze all over took care of the upstairs. Downstairs was more difficult. Walls were scrubbed, furniture wiped down, rugs sent out to be cleaned and carpets were steamed. The kitchen? Holy crap.

Our little grease fire a couple of years ago was nothing. A fast hit with the fire extinguisher and we were done. It took me a week to get the oven clean to the point that I was happy, but other than that it was a cakewalk.

The stove was a goner. Gas stove; we were freaking lucky the whole room hadn't exploded. As it hit me how close we had come, I had to sit down again, this time on the charred and filthy floor. I sat there a good twenty minutes, just… staring. It was truly a miracle that we weren't all dead.

Ducky and the insurance agent picked their way through the mess, talking in low voices. Stove: trashed. Cabinets: half trashed. Check the other appliances later, let her know. Floor would need replacing. Wall would need replacing. Who knows what else would need replacing. Thank god _we_ didn't need replacing.

The phone rang. "Hello. Mallard residence," I said tiredly.

"Cassandra, dear. How are you all doing? It's Eloise Broward."

One of Mother's Kennel club biddies—uh, buddies—from down the street. "Not too bad, really."

"Is… Alexandra home with you?"

"Yes…" I hadn't seen her recently, but I was sure she was upstairs. She'd been staying out of everyone's way, only coming out to eat. Smart choice for a number of reasons.

"Well… I ask only because I've seen a little girl going around and around the block the past hour and she looks _so __much_ like Alexandra… but, perhaps I'm wrong…"

"I'll check," I said slowly. "But—thank you, Mrs. Broward."

"If there's anything I can do to help—"

_Wanna __help __repaint __the __kitchen?_ "I'll let you know. Thank you."

I dashed upstairs. Her room was empty. So was her art room. And the basement.

Every person I passed I asked, "Have you seen Lexi?"

Every answer was a variant of "no" or "not recently."

Last chance. I grabbed Ducky. "Have you seen Lexi?"

He thought for a moment. "Not since lunch. She's been making herself scarce…"

I told him about Mrs. Broward's phone call and, after letting Ev and Lily know we were stepping out, we headed down the block.

We didn't have far to go. About four houses down we saw Lexi headed our way. She wore her 'going overnight to Aunt Charlie's' backpack, was hugging Herman, her stuffed fish and staring at the ground and sniffling as she plodded along. A thoroughly miserable little girl.

We waited until she passed us and fell in alongside. "Hey," I said.

No answer. Just a couple of sniffles.

"Lexi?" Ducky asked tentatively.

Silence. We passed from one house to the next.

"What'cha doing?"

Silence. Then: "Running…" Sniffle. "Away."

_Pow_. My jaw fell open and Ducky and I stopped and stared helplessly at each other. Lexi kept on walking. After a moment to regroup, we caught back up with her. "Honey…" She kept going. "Hey, hey…" I caught her arm and the three of us pulled up against the pillar at the bottom of our drive. "Why do you want to run away?" I asked as gently as I could.

"I—" Sniffle. "Don't _want_—" Sniffle. "To run—" Tiny sob. "Away."

"Then why _are_ you?"

"Because—because you don't want me any more!" she wailed.

I wrapped her in a hug. "Of _course_ we want you."

"No, you don't! I burned down the house!"

"No, you didn't. The house is still standing—see? We're getting everything cleaned up, and the kitchen will be fixed. Now, that's not to say we aren't upset about what happened. We are. But you don't kick someone out of the family just for setting fire to the kitchen," I said flippantly.

"But you and Daddy are _mad_—"

"Well, honey, of course we are. But being mad about something doesn't mean we don't love you and don't want you!" I hugged her again and Ducky pulled her away for a hug of his own. "We will _always_ love you and want you.'" (Okay, we'll renegotiate in ten years depending what you bring home as a boyfriend.)

She hugged Ducky until he gave a tiny "Oof" in protest. He had sucked in more smoke than I had. "Sweetie… I have to ask. If you were trying to run away from home, why were you walking around and around the block? Mrs. Broward said you kept walking past her house."

She looked at him in astonishment. "Because I'm not awowed to cross the street without a grownup. I didn't want to get in troubow again!"

Can't argue with the logic…

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><p> / / / /

A/N: If you've stopped by my bio page (please, do; there's stuff I can't post under my own name, if nothing else), you've seen the words "on hiatus" all over the place. Yes, I am on a break. No, the posting of this and the Jibbs Secret Santa exchange do not mean I'm "off" hiatus. I promised Miss Jayne to participate in the story exchange, and I *did* finish it. With the help of Shara Michelle, Enharmonic Interval is not only back up, but all the typos are now fixed (wow!). And this little snippet has been hanging around for several weeks, needing to be finished. So-they're finished.

As it says on the bio page, I *am* on hiatus. As one of the Ducky/Sandy stories put it, life is what happens when you're off making other plans; the past month-plus has shown that to be true beyond belief. I'm sure I'll stop in every once in a while; I just didn't want anyone to think I've totally abandoned them (or writing, for that matter). When things either get back in order or I come up with more hours in a day than are currently allotted, you'll start seeing more posts. :-D I won't be gone forever; I'll try not to turn into one of the Weavers. (The Weavers were a folk group in the 50s. In 1953 they essentially disbanded, but one of the founding members, Lee Hays, put it, "We took a sabbatical—and it turned into a Mondical and a Tuesdical.")

Happy Holidays to one and all-go back and re-read Chapter 27 if you're in need of a holiday rush after this chapter. Take care; see you soon. (Y'know, emails wouldn't be a bad thing...)


	32. Conscience Is The Inner Voice That Warns

November, 2012

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><p><strong>Conscience Is The Inner Voice That Warns Us When Somebody Is Looking<strong>

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><p> / / / /

_**A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory. (Steven Wright)**_

_**A person with no children says, "Well I just love children," and you say "Why?" and they say, "Because a child is so truthful, that's what I love about 'em - they tell the truth." That's a lie. I've got five of 'em. The only time they tell the truth is if they're having pain. (Bill Cosby)**_

/ / / / /

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><p>We do holidays big time in the Mallard household.<p>

Our first family Easter was April 12, 2009. Lexi was 7 months old and already owned enough stuffed animals to open an apocryphal zoo—but that didn't stop her extended family from adding on to the list. By the time she hits third grade, I figure we'll have to build on a wing for the creatures.

Charlie went a different route. Miss Easter Bunny entered the house that Sunday lugging a basket almost as tall as she was and crammed full of all sorts of sweet treats.

"Charlie, honey," I said, fighting a rising panic. "Lexi can't eat things like jellybeans and robin's eggs."

Bless her heart, she didn't give me a 'how stupid do you think I am?' look. "Don't worry, Aunt Sandy. It's all chocolate, and I _know_ she can have chocolate. And most of it's hollow chocolate, so it can be broken into small bits that will melt in her mouth. The solid ones we can chop up to little bits." She gave me a bright smile. "I'm sure she won't mind if you assist her in eating the contents."

Good. Because if she expected Lexi to eat it all on her own, she'd be working on that basket until she entered kindergarten. (Most of it ended up being frozen. We (we!) finished it by mid-summer.)

Lexi missed Halloween of '08 mostly because I said it was insane to take a _one-month-old __baby_ out trick-or-treating. Ducky backed me up, but both Abby and Charlie went into a blue funk. Halloween '09 we got beaten down; the four of them went out as the Andrews Sisters (Ziva was the third sister; Charlie dragged the treat bag and provided the third part harmony for Lexi) and brought back quite the haul. ('Laverne' and 'Maxene' actually sang "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" for a few people; 'Patty' just laughed, clapped and yelled, "More!" She didn't quite get the concept of lip-synching.) They spent the evening swapping out treats so that Lexi didn't get anything she might choke on.

Christmas? The first couple of years I didn't even bother buying any candy. Lexi's stocking (from us) held toys—but the stockings from (again) Abby and Charlie were crammed with candy. (Her second Christmas we were still working on Halloween stuff in the freezer!)

By April 4, 2010, I figured she was ready for an Easter egg hunt. We dyed eggs in the kitchen—screamingly electric colors that wouldn't blend in with ANYTHING around them (I didn't want to make it _too_ hard—the kid was only a week shy of 19 months)—and kept the hunt downstairs so that Grandma could help. It took a while, but they finally found all twelve eggs. Lily and Ev had counseled Charlie on the concept of "going overboard" and she decided to go non-food: toys, books, coloring books and so on. Phew. (Gave us a chance to have the Christmas candy zeroed out by the time Halloween rolled around again.)

What I didn't realize at the time was that she passed that candy-giving mantle to _me_.

I didn't go _too_ crazy the next Easter. But when she was three and a half and was begging for more eggs to hunt and I had had a hard time finding things to make with just a dozen hard-boiled eggs the year before, I started noticing the plastic eggs on display at the market. How ingenious! But… finding a hollow egg was kind of boring. (At least with the hard-boiled egg you could get an egg salad sandwich for lunch.) But—hey! Instead of filling the basket with candy, fill the _eggs_ with candy and then dump it into the basket. I grabbed pastel eggs, primary-color eggs, striped and dotted eggs, glittery eggs, marbleized eggs, tie-dyed eggs, a threesome of giant golden eggs (perfect for hiding money), pearlized eggs… realizing I had to _fill_ them, I started looking more closely at the candy display.

Hawaiian Punch flavored jellybeans? Oh, _heck_, yeah. (One bag for her, one for me.) Fruit jellybeans, spicy jellybeans, tangy jellybeans… Robin's eggs—oh, they have tiny ones _and_ big ones now. Get one of each. Hummingbird eggs. Jellied candies shaped like chicks and bunnies. Itty bitty sugar cookies shaped in Easter shapes and frosted pink and white. Easter candy corn (multiple tri-colors, multiple flavors—including the old traditional one). Foil-covered chocolate eggs—plain, crunch, mint, filled with peanut butter or caramel: one of each. Chocolate coins with bunnies stamped on the foil. Peeps and chocolate covered Peeps. Pez dispensers! Sugar eggs with panorama scenes inside. A spring garden of flower-shaped suckers. Chocolate-covered marshmallow eggs. The list went on… and let's not forget the Easter M&Ms and pastel foil covered chocolate Kisses, right?

"Did you leave _anything_ in the store?"

"Well… they were all so darn cute!"

Ducky shook his head. "We've filled the eggs to capacity and you _still_ have enough for a dozen more baskets."

"Two. Three, tops," I corrected. I looked at the debris on the table. "Maybe four."

With careful work, we managed to open the filled eggs, cram a few more goodies inside and then snap them shut again. (A few had to be reinforced with tape. They're prettier than they are study.) But we still had fistfuls of chocolates and other treats.

Dealing with the chocolate was easy: freezer. The jelly beans and other candies were something else. Since they were opened and unwrapped, no charity would take them. I didn't want them at the store, and I couldn't imagine anyone noshing on them in Autopsy. I wanted my one bag of Hawaiian Punch beans; beyond that, I was good. "Oh, hey, I have an idea…"

For my birthday, Ducky had given me a beautiful cut glass container of—don't laugh—caramel popcorn. (There's only one place you can get it—the revival movie theatre in Herndon. The owner's mother makes the stuff by hand every morning and they sell out by the second showing that evening. One taste and you're hooked; it's so good, you want to kick the Cracker Jack building.) The popcorn was gone in a couple of days (and, at that, I was stretching it out), leaving me with a beautiful glass jar about a foot square with faceted diamond shapes and a pyramid-shaped lid with a diamond-shaped knob at the top.

I snatched it from its usual resting place, atop the baby grand where it caught the afternoon sun and made a glittering light show for the cats (Pyewacket had retired from the store not long before; he had leaped from one bookcase to another, missed (badly), and lost a leg after several surgeries; he got along quite well, but it was unfair to subject him to the not always kind attentions of oft unattended children). It took the better part of two hours to arrange, but the candies were crammed in artistically to make a sun on one side, moon on another, sunset on a third and sunrise on the fourth. The remaining candies were middle filler—and when I say crammed, I mean _crammed_. An earthquake couldn't dislodge them. And, showing through the cut glass of the jar, it made a sort of stained glass effect and the topper to the lid still reflected the light for the cats.

Back to the piano it went… to sit.

Spring became summer, summer became fall. Lexi turned—holy cow!—four. The house and yard were overrun with crazed preschoolers, all in awe of Lexi's "really, _really_ old grandma" (one little boy said something about her really, _really _old mom and dad and I managed to not pop him one), the cats hid in the basement, the dogs hid under Mother's bed and, after the third cup of punch was spilled in the living room (despite instructions that food was to stay _in __the __back__yard, __please!_) I gave in to my baser instincts and said, "Toldja so." (Ducky had wanted to bring the good rugs down from the attic, now that Lexi was a more responsible age. I told him he was nuts, remember how much it cost to clean after the Xmas blowout of '07? I _enjoyed_ that 'I told you so.')

Barely a week later I noticed something odd about the jar of now-ancient candy. The lid was gone. And at least an inch of by-now-_very_-firm jellybeans and jellied candies had disappeared. It had all been there during the party (I had _hidden_ it during the party—I didn't want someone eating the contents by mistake); now it was depleted.

Hmm. Let's go through the list of suspects. Suzy? She knew how old the stuff was and wouldn't touch it on a bet. Ducky? Same. Lily, Ev, Charlie? Ditto. Mother wouldn't have been able to lift the lid, even if she had paid notice to it. _I_ sure wasn't guilty. Only one logical suspect…

I got my answer without even looking hard. The inverted lid made a nifty bowl, and if you took the _Misty_ books on one side and the _Anne __of __Green __Gables_ on the other and stuck long-abandoned chubby "baby' books in the valley between, it made a pretty good balance for the bowl full of really old candy.

Lexi was parked on her beanbag chair, eating the snack I had allowed her to take upstairs and working her way through one of the _Ramona __Quimby_ books. She didn't even notice I had walked in until I squatted down next to her. Then she looked up, stuck a carrot stick in the book as a placeholder and gave me a disarming grin. "Hi, Mommy. What's shakin'?"

I ignored the lingo (god knows where she had picked it up) and opened the book. "Carrots are not bookmarks."

"It won't hurt the carrot."

"It _will_ hurt the book." I reached up to her desk and grabbed a piece of cardstock with the library sale dates on it and stuck it in the book. "There's a reason you bring these home from the library, you know."

She nodded enthusiastically. "To tew us when the saows are."

"_And_ to hold your place in a book. Treat books with respect, Lexi. Don't dog-ear pages, don't—' Dang it, I came up with a different lecture in mind. "Lexi, the big jar of candy on the piano, the one that's _just __for __decoration, _with the _really __old __candy_ in it? It's been opened." Silence. "Someone took a bunch of candy out of it." Silence. "And the lid is missing." Deafening silence. "Do you know anything about it?"

Big rule in our house: if you do something that you've been told is a no-no, you will be punished. If you do something you've been told is a no-no and are asked about it and choose not to confess (and/or lie like a rug about it), your punishment will be worse because you compounded your crime with falsehood. "No, Mommy."

One more try. "There are, realistically, only eight people who could have taken that candy. Grandma isn't strong enough to open that jar. Suzy wouldn't have taken it. Daddy and I wouldn't have taken it. Auntie Charlie wouldn't, Auntie Evvie wouldn't and Auntie Lily wouldn't. Who's left?"

"Maybe… maybe Uncow Jethro?" I gave her a, 'yeah, right' look. "Uncow Ray? Auntie Barbie?"

I sighed. "Lexi…" I hate to say, it wasn't so much the fib that was getting me—it was the fact that she thought I was so stupid I'd buy it.

"Cooper? Cooper _wuvs_ candy."

Well, _that_ was true enough. "And how did he open the lid?"

_Crap. Missed that part._

"You know," I said conversationally, "that candy is _awfully_ old. Someone could possibly get a stomachache. Maybe even get sick."

Her eyes widened. "How sick?" I shrugged expressively. "Do—do I have to go to the hospitow?"

"Are you telling me _you__'__re_ the one who opened the candy jar?"

Her brow knit, her eyes scrunched and she twisted and chewed her lips. The last time I saw a confession take so long and be the result of so much work, it was on CNN. I glanced "casually" toward the bookcase—and the missing lid.

Busted. "Yes, Mommy."

"Yes…?" I prompted.

"I took the candy."

"Why? We have a cookie jar full of suckers in the kitchen, Halloween chocolate in the freezer—if you _ask_, you have a reasonably good chance that Daddy or I will say yes."

"I didn't want a sucker. And I didn't want chocowat. I remembered how good they were at Easter…" She trailed off and looked at the bookcase. "They aren't so good, now." Her eyebrows almost tangled they were so drawn together. "Am I gonna die?" she whispered.

"No… and if you don't have a stomachache by now, you're probably okay. Now. You knew that jar was off-limits. You broke the 'ask first' rule. And then you lied. So. What do _you_ think your punishment should be?"

She actually thought about it. "Wet the punishment fit the crime…" she muttered. (Thank god I had my hand up by my mouth to prop up my chin, made it easier to smother my grin and swallow my laugh. Mother is fond of Gilbert and Sullivan and Lexi watches/listens with her.) "No candy untiw Christmas?"

I was tempted to say yes, but— "Christmas is two months away…" Now she looked worried, probably concerned I _would_ say 'yes.' "I think it would be reasonable to say no candy until Thanksgiving Eve."

"Okay!" Half a prison sentence? Sure, yes!

"Now. That takes care of nicking the candy. What about the fibbing?"

She sighed heavily. "Wines?" she said dejectedly.

"Lines." Old school is good school.

"How many?" I looked at her expectantly. "Twenty-five?" she asked hopefully. I stared at her blandly. "Fifty?" No answer. "Seventy-five?" Dwindling hope. "Hundred?"

"That works."

She sighed again and set aside her book. Dragging over to her desk she sat down and pulled out a pad of primer paper. "I wiwh not wie?"

"Well—you know the difference between a fib and a little white lie, right?"

"Tewwing Auntie Miriam I wuvved the sweater she knitted me is a white wie."

"Right. So you can write 'I will not lie' because you know the difference—or you can write 'I will not fib.' Same number of letters."

She sighed. "I wiwh not fib. I have to work on my f's and b's anyway."

"Good choice." I ruffled her curls and gave her a kiss so she knew we were still buddies. "I'll bring you a new plate. You're going to need it. And don't forget to number your lines."

She nodded. "Mommy?"

"Mmh?"

"Wiwh you throw out the candy?" She pointed to the bookcase. "Pwease?" she quickly added.

"You won't go back and nick it again later, will you?"

She made a face and a rude noise. "No."

"I'll put it back in the container. It's kind of pretty."

"Yeah, it is," she agreed. She turned to her paper and started writing.

All in all, a good ending—even thought it still bugs me that she thought I'd believe _Cooper_ was guilty. It was a temptation to ask, "Do you really think I'm that stupid?"—but I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer.


	33. There Are Two Means Of Refuge

December, 2016

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><p><strong>There Are Two Means Of Refuge From The Miseries Of Life: Music And Cats. (Albert Schweitzer)<strong>

Choir practices always go up in number and duration when Christmas rolls around. From November on, two days become three and they often run late. Such is life.

Summer of 2016 we got an email from Russell G. Power (the "G" supposedly stands for God; the senior kids tagged him with that decades ago and it's stuck ever since), music dictator—I mean music _director—_letting us know that the Christmas schedule would start earlier… as in the Tuesday after Labor Day. Tuesday, Wednesday AND Thursday for three and a half months. Failure to attend rehearsals would result in exclusion from _**all**_ Christmas programming. Period

All? Two pageants and a midnight service, all on Christmas Eve. There had never been such stringent rules before; something was in the works.

The first day, we found out why 'God' was being such a hardnosed SOB. In addition to her weekly Sunday service notebook AND her Christmas pageant and service notebook, Lexi came home bearing the greater Washington, D.C. phone book. Oops, wrong. Make that… the full score from Handel's "Messiah." Apparently right after the New Year there had been a decision to hold a special concert on the Mall the following Christmas. Choirs from the Tri-State area, with the musical backing of the USMC orchestra, were going to be performing _en masse_ at the National Mall the Saturday before Christmas Eve.

Because tryouts would have taken forever, the coordinators did secret tryouts—they fanned out over Virginia, DC and Maryland, listened to choirs during services (secretly taping them, too), compared notes and then sent out invitations. They shot for two Episcopal, two Lutheran, two Baptist, so on and so forth, but that didn't work out. For example, one of the teeny, tiny Anglican churches (so tiny that Ducky didn't even know they existed—which is why he ended up going with kissing cousin Episcopal Church) had a choir that would knock your socks off—but the entire congregation was under a hundred, the choir under fifteen members. So they went with fifty members plus-or-minus from each denomination… and then sent out invitations at the end of spring. "Pride may be a sin," Mr. Power said grimly. "But when you get up there, I want every other choir director to look at his or her group and say, 'If you work harder, YOU could sound that good.'"

Usual practice for the kids' choirs was Tuesday and Thursday. St. Cecelia was 3:30 to 5:00. The junior/senior high choir had the 5:00 to 6:30 slot. Normally there was an hour of actual practice and a half hour of chitchat and messing around scattered throughout. Not this time. Knowing how hard this piece was and what was on the line, even the littlest kids buckled down. When the kids joined the adult choir on Wednesdays from 5:00 to 7:00 I heard several adults saying they should do this all the time if it would keep the kids in line. (A lot of the adult choir members had kids in the junior choirs and they _knew_ how practices usually went.)

Ducky and I traded off driving Lexi; occasionally we drove together. It was easier (and cheaper) to just wait at church or sit at the coffee shop down the way and read over pie and tea. Usually I would hang out at the church office and shoot the breeze with Fr. Parker or help the church secretary, Beverly Parker (no relation), with some of the never-ending busywork.

"Why don't _you_ join the choir?" she asked one week.

"Russell G. Power _scares_ me."

She laughed. "He is kind of a bear, but they love him."

_Bear?_ The man snarls, bellows, yells, "What in the h-e-double hockey sticks!" and throws things. Never _at_ anyone, but, still…! And when he's conducting? Think of _Sister Act_. Picture Whoopi Goldberg as she conducted the choir: spinning, gyrating, waving her arms like she's flagging in a 747, bent double and frantically coaxing notes from the choir. Now: turn her into a beyond middle-aged, balding, potbellied, scowling white dude who ends up with facial expressions reminiscent of medieval gargoyles. Add on phenomenal scoring, piano, and organ skills (among the half-dozen instruments he can play—and he can play ragtime and boogie woogie like nobody else)… and there you have Russell G. Power.

A week before the concert date they had a massed choir and orchestra rehearsal. The whole… day… long. (This was really putting a crimp in shopping and other holiday plans—but it _was_ a once in a lifetime thing, so there was no bitching.) It took very little work to blend the voices, even with trading directors every 10 minutes or so to give each director a chance to shine during the over two and a half hour (plus intermission!) show; the hard part was getting hundreds of singers from 7 to 77 (actually 91, if you're picky) onstage neatly and quickly, filing in from four angles and crossing like a precision drill team to get onto miles and miles of risers. They did two full dress run-throughs of the actual performance (it was interesting to see the widely divergent choir robes up on the risers)—and more than a dozen of walk on/walk off. There were collisions and trippings (no real injuries, thank heavens) and by dinner break they were ready to take on the USC marching band. Ducky and I took hours of video for later editing—and _we_ were exhausted. Pulling off "Hallelujah Chorus" is one thing; I think every person involved, especially the singers (and _especially_ the kids), deserved some sort of award. (For the whole season Mr. Power was letting all the choirs fall back on we-know-it-cold hymns for Sunday service that needed only five-minute run-throughs, and everyone looked at the Christmas pageant songs as a nice break. This show was their main focus.)

As we gathered for a last info dispersal before heading home, Mr. Power tersely announced there would only be a Wednesday rehearsal before Saturday's show. Then he left.

The adult choir members just shrugged; the little kids were baffled. One of the high school singers sighed. "I guess he figures more practice won't help," she said morosely.

"Yeah, did you hear that first soprano from Colonial View? Jeez!"

"You mean Mariah Carey?" someone said sarcastically.

"You mean Yma Sumac?" an older woman tossed over her shoulder. She missed the "hunh?" looks between the kids.

"I thought we sounded pretty good," Lexi said sadly as she climbed into the car.

"Sweetie, you did! You guys sounded fabulous!" I said, twisting around from my shotgun seat.

"I hoped he'd at least _smile_."

"I'll bet he's giving you two rehearsals off because you sounded so great."

She sighed. "It's like Callie said. He figures more practice won't help, this is as good as it's gonna get. We can't pull off a miracle in a week."

"Honey, you _did_ pull off a miracle."

"That is an incredibly difficult piece," Ducky chimed in. "And combining choirs from so many different denominations and areas makes it even more so. You should be very proud of what you've accomplished. _All _of you should."

Things didn't improve the next day—not from Lexi's standpoint. They flew through their songs during the 9:30 service; all they heard in the change room was, "Good job, girls, see you Wednesday." Nothing more than his usual comment.

On Wednesday, we went to drop her off in the rehearsal room—and found Fr. Parker, Fr. Knowles and Bev Parker waiting outside. So was everyone else. (It looked like the crowd outside Wal-Mart before the Thanksgiving Black Friday sale: a huge mob, only friendlier.)

"What's up?" I asked Bev. "Someone forget to unlock the choir room?"

"No—Russell wants everyone to come in all at the same time. And parents are to stay."

Ducky winced faintly. He hadn't minded the all day rehearsal on Saturday, but this was a 'school night' for him.

Bev shrugged. "Don't ask me, I just work here."

We didn't have long to wait. The right half of the double doors flew open, and the scowling face of Mr. Power emerged. "What are you all doing standing around outside? It's freezing! Get in here, for Pete's sake!"

People started filing in—as they entered, I heard them laugh, applaud, even cheer. Ducky, Lexi and I entered… and began to laugh.

The baby grand in the middle of the practice room was closed; atop it sat two huge cakes and stacks of plates and napkins and forks. Tables on one side of the room held party platters and chips; tables on the other side, cans of soda and cartons of milk and juice. The blackboard in the back of the room was pre-painted with musical staves; across the lines he had printed in large, thick letters _**CONRATULATIONS TO THE BEST CHOIR OF THE MESSIAH ASSEMBLAGE!**_

All of the kids looked like they were birthday celebrants hit with a surprise party. Not far off—they were floored. We crowded into the room; once we were all inside, 'God' stood on the top riser and whistled for attention. Sudden silence. "Thanks," he said gruffly. "All of _you_ were on the Mall last Saturday," he said, pointing around the room to the choir members at large. "Some of you—" he indicated the parents almost dismissively, "—were there. Those of you who weren't—" He glowered at the room… then _burst into a grin_. "Missed one phenomenal show! I have never—_never_—been so—" He choked up. He pulled off his glasses and wiped his eyes. "So… _proud_ of any group of singers I've conducted. You deserve a huge round of applause for your talent and dedication. Not _one person_ has missed even _one_ rehearsal."

"You said you'd can us if we did!" came an anonymous voice from the back of the room.

"Aaaaah—I wouldn't have kicked you out for _one_ missed rehearsal." He grinned for the second time. "_Maybe_ two." The roomful of people laughed. "But you pulled it out and ran the distance. You were just… out of this world. Like I said, you deserve a round of applause—and I'm starting it."

Slow, loud claps that sounded like cracks of thunder in the quiet room, they grew in speed and volume as others joined in until everyone was clapping like they were at the reunion of the Beatles. Screaming, clapping, laughing and jumping up and down and hugging one another. Mr. Power hadn't just smiled… he had _grinned_ at them. They must have done pretty good!

"Now—eat!" he commanded. He glared at the parents. "You, too, you deserve something for dragging your kids here every night without fail." He stomped down the risers to the floor and everyone scattered to the food tables.

Lexi was still stunned—and on an emotional high that would keep her afloat for a week. "He really thought we were good?"

"Honey, I _told_ you you were good," I said.

"Yeah, but—"

"'But' nothing. If you can make Mr. Power almost cry—you were _beyond_ good."

She grinned. "When you put it that way…"

* * *

><p><em><strong>Happy holidays, one and all!<strong>_


	34. Christmas, Christmas Time Is Here

Decembers

* * *

><p><strong>Christmas, Christmas Time Is Here,<br>****And Christmas Songs You Love To Hear,  
><strong>**Thoughts Of Joy And Hope And Cheer,  
><strong>**But Mostly Shopping, Shopping, Shopping!  
><strong>**(Straight No Chaser)**

* * *

><p><strong>2009<strong>

After our first big whoop-ti-do Christmas party in 2007, we decided to make it an annual event. Having a 3 month old the next year didn't stop us; having a 15 month old the year after didn't, either. (I think it may have encouraged the idea—you know, the concept of conversations with adults?) And then there was the NCIS office party.

Like the summer "family picnic," the Christmas—oops, _Holiday_ Party wasn't limited to employees only. Family members were encouraged to join in, including kids. They always had someone dressed up as Santa, games were played and everyone had a good time.

When the baby was only 3 months old, we decided it was a bit much to drag her to the Navy Yard for a party that wouldn't really mean anything to her. So we dropped her off at Ev and Lily's, prepared to find her spoiled thoroughly rotten when we returned, and headed off to the party.

Santa was played (very realistically) by a nice old guy from Legal. Beard and moustache were the real thing (he said he started growing them out in September). (So was his belly—which he said he worked on year 'round.) There were a couple of elves—little size zeros from one or another department, one taking pictures of the kids with Santa, the other one handing out candy canes left and right. Abby would have made an adorable (if extremely tall) elf, but she was dressed in a very different costume. Abby… was a tree.

She was draped in a head to toe dark brown sheath with a metal framework built into it. She was covered on all sides in the most realistic fake branches I've ever seen and decorated with tinsel, garlands and all manner of ornaments tied firmly to her branches. She even had lights powered by a battery pack. The 'trunk' had a hole for her face so she could walk around and see where she was going—but, much like you can't see the forest for the trees, she could see out… but unless you got up close and _really_ personal, you couldn't see _in_.

"The kids think it's really cool! A talking tree!" she burbled when we ran into her in the hallway.

"Okay, not to be nosy, but—how do you _pee?_" Having just been pregnant for what seemed like forever and spending 23 out of every 24 hours in the bathroom, I was dying to know.

She shrugged and her upper branches wiggled. "I don't. I hit the bathroom before getting into this rig, I'm not drinking anything while I'm in it, and there's no way I can do this more than two hours—so I'll be fine."

"Better you than me. I'll let you know if I see Euell Gibbons roaming about."

We hit the buffet (good food, though Ducky's turkey is better, in my opinion), had our pictures taken with Santa, shmoozed around the room and generally had a good time.

"Ooh! A magician!" I whispered. He was off in one corner of the room, doing close work sleight of hand. Ducky loves magic (he's a bit of an amateur magician) and so do I, so we hung out for a good ten minutes or more.

We weren't the only ones entranced. Abby stood a few feet away, so silent ad still that I forgot she wasn't a tree. (A testimony to her acting abilities if nothing else.)

"Good show," I said as we turned to go.

"Agreed." Abby started to make a careful turn.

"GAAHHH!" The woman behind Abby screeched.

"IEEEEEE!" Abby screamed in response. "Jeez, scare a girl to death!"

"The tree moves! The tree talks! The tree talks!" she babbled. A man—her husband, I presume—ran up and she shoved her cup at him, hissing, "You said the punch _wasn't_ spiked!" before running off.

Abby stared after her for a moment, head cocked (making the top of the tree tilt dangerously askew). "I need to find Misty," she said. "After that—I _do_ have to pee." She wobbled out of the room.

* * *

><p><strong>2012<strong>

Ducky is one of the best cooks I know. One of the best bakers, too. He likes my cooking, I like his. We get along great.

Every Christmas we make tons of fudge and divinity and such. When Lexi turned one, we snagged Lily's almond roca recipe and it was a huge hit. (Okay, it took a trial batch to get it right. Her instructions said, "cook until hard crack/medium tan." The candy thermometer read "hard crack"—but it was nowhere close to medium tan. We shrugged, put our faith in technology and poured the candy onto cookie sheets to harden… and watched it spread, like The Blob out of the movie by the same name. Over the cookie sheets and onto the table… over the table and onto the floor… across the floor like a sticky lake and Ducky shook his head. "I don't think it's going to set up." The candy thermometer was a trifle inaccurate and was quickly replaced. The next batch was perfect.) A couple of years later we decided to try her Spicy Peanut Brittle.

It was a simple recipe. Mix most of the ingredients, cook to a boil, cover for 3 minutes, uncover and, quote, "reduce heat to medium, and cook until the sugar is a light amber color." We reduced the heat and cooked the sugar, aiming for a light amber color as directed. We cooked.

And cooked.

And cooked.

And _cooked_.

The pale mass bubbled and burbled… and refused to change color.

Minutes ticked by. The contents of the pot slowly decreased in volume and it _still_ didn't turn that lovely golden brown peanut brittle should be.

"Okay, it's been hard crack for _ages_," I griped. (This was according to a new, calibrated candy thermometer, too.) "It's just not going to change color. Screw it. Dump in the nuts."

The directions warned that once we added the peanuts it would "drop the temperature like a rock, so work quickly before it sets up." Understatement. It clanked up into a near-solid mass, falling out of the pot in clumps. (So much for "use a buttered spatula to spread thin.")

"Oh, dear."

"Crap."

"That doesn't wook wike Auntie Wiwwy's peanut brittow," Lexi said hesitantly.

"Yeah…" I took a small chunk that had cooled off and took a cautious bite. "Well… it doesn't _taste_ bad. A little grainy, but not bad…"

"We'll put it out after people are a little tiddly," Ducky said. "They'll eat anything at that point."

When Lily called later on, she was mystified. "That's my never-fail recipe. We'll have to make a batch tonight after dinner."

That night, we didn't even have to open the sugar canister. She picked up the pan we had used and almost brandished it at us. "You used _this?_"

Duck and I exchanged a look. "Yeah…" I said.

"You don't use non-stick pans to make brittles!" she laughed. "It will never brown!"

Is it any wonder my favorite t-shirt reads _Oh, no! Not another learning experience_?

* * *

><p><strong>2010<strong>

Ducky and I swore that we wouldn't become "those" parents. Pictures of the kid or the family sent out with a card, yes. But newsletters? Not gonna happen.

_Dear All:_

_Well, it's been an exciting year! Muffy got nominated for a Nobel (again!); that she lost was only due to jealousy and politics. Biff took his company from IPO to $500 a share in six months and sold out; poor dear, he's looking for something to occupy his time (ha-ha!). The twins, Bitsy and Barfy discovered a cure for the common cold over summer break—_

I tossed yet another newsletter on Ducky's desk. Ugh. Let _him_ read them if he wants to. I'll pass.

_Dearest Family and Friends:_

_Well, we started off the year on a sad note. The family reunion picnic was marred by that nasty case of food poisoning…_

Another one for the pile. Next card. Lily and Ev. Inside was a lovely family portrait of the three of them and… oh, dear god, a _newsletter_. I started to chuck it onto the desk (come on, I know everything that's gone on in their universe for the past year anyway) and stopped. Something about the layout looked… different from the normal newsletter.

**tap tap tappity tap tap tap tap**

_**What are you doing?**_

**Working on our holiday newsletter.**

_**Lemme see. I'll help.**_

**WISHING YOU  
><strong>**HAPPY HOLIDAYS**

_**Y'know, some people think "Happy Holidays" is kinda..."meh."**_

**Oh? Oh, okay.**

**WISHING YOU A  
><strong>**MERRY CHRISTMAS**

_**Um, Antonia and her son are celebrating Kwanzaa and Christmas now.**_

**Oh.**

**WISHING YOU A  
><strong>**MERRY CHRISTMAS  
><strong>**HAPPY KWANZAA**

_**And Marcia and David and their kids—**_

**Oh, I forgot. **

**WISHING YOU A  
><strong>**MERRY CHRISTMAS  
><strong>**HAPPY KWANZAA  
><strong>**HAPPY HANUKKAH**

_**But Deb and Jim are Pagan.**_

**{silent glower}**

_**They told me to have a Blessed Winterfest. Does that help?**_

**WISHING YOU A  
><strong>**MERRY CHRISTMAS  
><strong>**HAPPY KWANZAA  
><strong>**HAPPY HANUKKAH  
><strong>**BLESSED WINTERFEST**

_**Or was it Solstice?**_

**{sigh}**

**WISHING YOU A  
><strong>**MERRY CHRISTMAS  
><strong>**HAPPY KWANZAA  
><strong>**HAPPY HANUKKAH  
><strong>**BLESSED WINTERFEST  
><strong>**HAPPY SOLSTICE**

_**I think Julie—**_

**I don't want to hear it.**

_**It's—**_

**No. **

_**Festivous? And Dixie had a Saturnalia party—**_

**{pounds head on keyboard}**

**MERRY CHRISTMAS  
><strong>**HAPPY KWANZAA  
><strong>**HAPPY HANUKKAH  
><strong>**BLESSED WINTERFEST  
><strong>**HAPPY SOLSTICE  
><strong>**MERRY FESTIVOUS  
><strong>**RAUCOUS SATURNALIA**

**Ok? OK. Good enough.**

**_{silence}_**

**Yes?**

_**Well...**_

**NOW what?**

_**I remember Christopher having an altar for Diana.**_

**Who? What? You mean like Wonder Woman?**

_**Diana. Greek goddess. Goddess of the hunt.**_

**{silence}**

_**Oh, and Cara is agnostic. And Ian became Buddhist.**_

**{silence, broken by a faint sob}**

**D E L E T E**

**HAPPY NEW Y-**

_**You know, the Russian Orthodox church celebrates new year on—**_

**Don't. Even. Go. There.**

_**Hmph. No need to get huffy. Just trying to help!**_

**{silence}**

**D E LE T E**

**HAPPY ARBOR DAY!**

**Will that work?**

_**Isn't Bob a Druid...?**_

**{chair shoves back, computer is pushed off table}**

_**Dear?**_

**{door slams}**

_**So... we're not doing a newsletter this year?**_

_**Whatever the reason-  
><strong>__**Have a great season!**_

Okay… _some_ newsletters aren't that bad!


	35. Incredible As It Seems, My Life Is Based

A/N: The prior chapter was supposed to be a LOT longer. I have one word and one-line notes for another half-dozen or so holiday stories. Unfortunately, the computer I was using on Saturday had a catostrophic failure. I ran across the street (literally across the street) to the library and had under an hour to finish writing and post. Because, as Sandy pointed out a story or two ago, "Life Is What Happens To You While You're Busy Making Other Plans," I have not had a chance to do more than a few paragraphs on a couple of segments. I hope to post the rest of that Christmas present for New Year's.

In the meantime, this came out of... somewhere. And Miss Jayne will be posting the Secret Santa Jibbsfest in the next couple of days; I will post the link on my bio page.

* * *

><p>July, 2008<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Incredible As It Seems, My Life Is Based On A True Story<strong>

"I'm fat."

Ducky sighed patiently. "You are _not_ fat."

"Every piece of clothing I own is made by Omar the Tentmaker!"

"You're not _fat_," he repeated. "You're _pregnant_."

I glared at the mirror. "I don't even remember what my feet look like!"

"They're quite attractive. Please take my word for it."

Fifty-two. Fifty-two and _pregnant_. If I was shocked to put fifty-_one_ and pregnant together in the same sentence, put another year on that and it's just another year of shock. "I'm fifty-two and pregnant! I never though _I'd_ be outdoing Gamma's record! Fifty-two! _Fifty-two!_"

"Are you… regretting the decision?" His voice was very even… and very soft.

I gasped. "No. No! I just—" I let out a deep breath. "I'm just—"

"Frustrated."

"Fat."

"Tired."

"And fat."

He came up behind me and slipped his arms around me, resting his hands on the weather balloon under my t-shirt. The weather balloon gave him a small kick. "Not fat," he said firmly, kissing the curve of my neck.

I sighed. "Okay… I _know_ it's not _fat_ fat, I just feel like I should change my name to 'Hindenburg.'"

"And probably every pregnant woman out there has had the same feeling. It's hard to go from slim and petite to beautifully rounded without some adjustment involved."

Slim and petite? Yeah, maybe in high school. Nowadays? A year ago I'd say 'short and hippy.' But Ducky is prejudiced in my favor. And 'beautifully rounded' didn't hurt, either. I sighed. "Two more months."

"You know, elephants have an average gestation of six hundred and sixty days…"

I stared at our images in the mirror. "And opossums are thirteen. Next time, I'm coming back as a possum!"

/ / / / /

"What may I get for you?"

I tried not to laugh. Charlie was dancing in place, desperate to help. Ev had approached me a week before, saying Charlie wanted to hang out at Papyrus after summer school ended. I had no objections, but was a little confused—until she said Charlie was worried that I was having difficulty as the pregnancy progressed. I had kissed off tie-on shoes ages ago and if something fell to the floor I had to _really_ want it to bother making my way down and back up. A lot of things waited for someone else to come along. (When I stopped at Auto Zone for a free battery checkup I discovered all sorts of neat things by the checkout stand—including telescoping grabbers and magnets. I grabbed one of each. At least I can pick up _small_ things. (The reaching grabbers they advertise in the Sunday supplements are worthless, in my opinion.)) But there were things I needed help with—carrying, reaching (thinking)… Having Charlie around was a big help, but the poor girl was always wanting to _do_ _something_. "Juice? Juice would be nice," I suggested.

"Apple? Grape? Cranberry? Cherry?"

"Surprise me."

She returned with cranberry-grape juice and an attractively arranged plate of cheese and crackers. "I know an afternoon continental would be cheese and wine but since I know you mayn't have alcohol…" she fretted.

"This is perfect. Really. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Mommy!"

I stopped in mid-bite. "_Mommy?_" I repeated. "What, two aren't enough?"

"Well, there's no time like the present to get you used to your new title," she said with tone of reason.

There was a giggle from the corner. "That's an _excellent_ idea, Charlie."

"Chanda—"

"Yes, Mom?" she said with an innocent look.

"Oh, come on—"

"Charlie's right. You've been known by your real name far too long. It's gonna be a jolt when you lose your personhood and become…_Mommy_," she said dramatically.

Ellie sidled up next to me. "_Mommy_… may I have a juice box?" Chanda didn't even have to suggest it to her and she grabbed the joke.

I gave her a mock glower. "Ask the real deal," I said, pointing to her mother.

By the time Ev and Lily showed up, I had Chanda, her kids, her niece and nephew _and_ Charlie calling me 'Mom' or 'Mommy.' They found it a riot—and joined in.

"You realize I would have had to have you and Chanda before I even graduated high school—and Lily not long after," I said darkly.

Ev scraped one forefinger over the other in a 'tsk-tsk' motion. "Never realized you were such a naughty girl, Mommy."

"Flunked math, eh?"

By late afternoon I had given up the fight. It had even started to be funny. "Hey. Help your old lady," I chided, handing Lily a dust rag and pointing to the top of the doorjamb. "Mommy says no," I said, tweaking the chocolate bar out of Chanda's hand. "You didn't finish your lunch!"

Most of the customers were oldtimers and thought it was a riot. (They'd thought the past few months of me tripling in size were funny, too.) The new customers figured out the truth pretty quickly—I mean, yeah, Chanda, Ev and Lily look a little younger than their ages… but, jeez!

One woman was buying it, hook, line and sinker. "Eight children?" she said, clearly trying to contain her horror. "And a _ninth_ on the way?"

"Oh, there are more at home," Lily chirped before I could tell the woman the truth.

"Anne and Mary and Ernestine and Martha and Frank—"

I realized Chanda was rattling off the kids from a favorite book, _Cheaper By the Dozen_. Too bad the woman had clearly never read the book or even seen the movie. I heard the back door open; down the THEATRE row I could see Valerie and Cherie holding each other up, doubled over in silent laughter. "Actually—"

"Hello, my darling." It was Ducky who had come in the back door, a spring in his step and a happy smile on his face.

"Daddy!" Charlie chirped, throwing her arms around a startled Ducky.

"Charlotte—"

The woman drew into herself in disgust. "You... you _beast!_" she hissed. She spun on her heel and sped out the door.

Ducky looked around in bewilderment as his 'children' burst into laughter. "Was is something I said?"


	36. If You Love Something, Set It Free

Saturday, November 27, 2010

* * *

><p><strong>If You Love Something, Set It Free.<strong>  
><strong>If It Comes Back To You, It's Yours Forever;<strong>  
><strong>If It Doesn't, Hunt It Down And Kill It.<strong>

By the time she turned two, Lexi was well established in her routine: up early for breakfast, send Daddy off into the cold, cruel world, play with Grandma and Suzy while Mommy puts the kitchen to rights and gets ready for work, commute in with Mommy (while keeping up a never-ending line of chatter from the back seat), occupy self in the baby books section and ask questions left and right (with frequent snack and lunch breaks), go back home in the afternoon and tell Grandma and Suzy about the prior six hours, torment the dogs and cat, rebroadcast the day's events for Daddy, eat a ton of food for dinner, wheedle extra story time, reluctantly go to bed—repeat from the start the following weekday. Visits from Aunties Ev, Lily and Charlie just improved things.

The first Wednesday of October we got home around three and found Suzy and Mother waiting in the living room. Not unusual. They were seated on the couch, the day's mail on the coffee table in front of them. Also not too unusual. Mother was trying to snag an envelope and open it, and Suzy kept taking it from her hands and setting it back. "You already opened yours."

"What's up?" I asked as Lexi streaked toward her grandmother, scrambled up on the couch and became a lap fixture.

"Open it, Cassandra!" Mother cried, clapping her hands.

"Yeah, before Victoria breaks a federal law or two."

I took the envelope from Victoria. Halloween party invie? The envelope was a rich chocolate brown with a subtle sparkle to it. Return address: McAllister and Campbell. Lily and Ev were throwing a party? Cool. I was sure Lexi would be on the list; this would give her another place to literally strut her feathers (her costume this year was Zazu, the bird from _The Lion King_). Yep; the address was to Dr. and Mrs. Donald Mallard (oooh, how _formal_) and Miss Alexandra Mallard. I forced open the heavy paper and pulled out the card—and screamed and ran for the phone. "Ducky! Ducky, Ducky, Lily and Ev are getting married next month!"

We had been teasing them all year since marriage became an equal opportunity board game in D.C. and the sneaks had been oh-so-casual about it. "Oh… maybe after the rush is over…" "Hey, we've only been shacked up for three years, better make sure this will work, first. Divorce isn't cheap, according to Gibbs."

"I got mine last night," Suzy confessed. "Victoria opened hers this morning and wanted to call you at the store. It was a hard go convincing her to keep quiet."

"I can imagine." I was already dialing the number of my favorite competitor. "You sneaks! You little sneaks! How dare you do this without asking me for help?"

Lily laughed. "I take it the mail arrived?" There was a giggle from Ev on the extension.

"Yes! Do we _really_ have to respond? Do you think we'd say no?"

"Well—we want Lexi to be our ring bearer-slash-flower girl. _That_ we need an answer for," Ev said.

"And we figure Grandma will be grandmother-of-the-bride twice over," Lily added.

"Mother, I can say yes for. The other matter?" I carefully avoided using Lexi's name. "Are you sure? I see rings being flung, not flowers…"

"She'll be fine. We trust her," she said staunchly. "Charlie will keep her in line."

"You want to ask her yourself?"

"Sure!"

I handed the phone over to Lexi. "Auntie Lily and Auntie Ev want to talk to you."

She almost grabbed the phone from my hand. She _loves_ to talk on the phone. "Auntie Wiwwy! Auntie Ev!" She listened and gasped, "Oh!" every so often. "Wike Mommy and Daddy? Oh!" More listening. "Oh, I _wuv_ purpow!" More listening, then, very carefully (clearly following prompts): "I would be dewighted to be your fwower girow." She handed the phone back to me and screeched at Suzy and Victoria, "I gonna be a fwower girow!"

"And a _beautiful_ flower girl," Mother gushed.

We got more details that weekend. To my surprise, they weren't going for historical dress of any era. "Been there, done that. Gone to too many Elizabethan, Tudor—" Ev said.

"Victorian, Edwardian—"

"Regency—"

"Georgian—"

"Okay, the Roaring Twenties one was a little different," Ev admitted. "But we just want a nice, normal… wedding. Like you guys had."

"Mostly friends. Neither of us has a lot of family—not blood relations, anyway." Lily toyed with her coffee, making tiny waves against the edge of the cup. "We have… invited the Kemmelbachers," she said cautiously. "I have no idea if they'll show up. Missus has been… more cordial since Charlie's going away party a few years back. We're actually in touch with the aunts and uncles and Grandfather quite a bit—it's Grandmother who's a little difficult. But she's been to our place for birthdays, Charlie goes over a couple of times a week—and _both_ of us are invited along. Progress."

Charlie was in the living room with Lexi and Mother, giving us a chance to talk freely. "I… have kept in touch with Mrs. Kemmelbacher," Ducky said slowly. "It's difficult to turn your back on something you've held for all of your life. For her to admit that her church is wrong is the same as saying _God_ is wrong."

"She has a daughter who's gay and terrified to come out to her. Please—her _nom de plume_ is Lorelei Odile?" I said.

Suzy cocked her head. "Okay—Lorelei I _kind of_ remember…"

"Lorelei—German legend, she threw herself into the river over a cheating lover; she came back and her singing lures sailors to crash on the rocks. In general, she causes destruction. And Odile is the evil black swan from _Swan Lake_. Definite self-esteem issues," I said.

"Then there's Hannah Grace, Charlie's mother…" Ev said with a sigh.

"And she was the third one to die under, shall we say, unflattering conditions."

Ducky looked at Lily sharply. "Third?"

"Mm-hmm. She never mentions them—not in terms of the real world, anyway. Firstborn son, Peter—"

"He died from a heart attack," Ducky said.

Lily shrugged lightly. "Caused by a heroin overdose."

Ducky was clearly taken aback. "And… Ruth? It… _wasn't_… a post-op infection?"

Lily ad Ev exchanged a glance. "Well… sort of," Lily said. "But the surgery was a back-alley abortion when she was almost five months along. Way past elective termination. Leah—the nurse, the one who's trying to come out—tried to get Ruth to go to a clinic early on, but she was afraid her 'sin' would be found out. She tried home remedies—herbal, throwing herself downstairs, saying if God wanted the pregnancy to end, it would. Eventually she realized if she didn't do _something_, her mother would figure it out. And her mother scared her more than God did."

Ducky stared into his coffee cup and shook his head slowly. "This… helps me understand some things better…" He continued to gaze into the tan depths. "Thank you…"

The conversation made several turns, finally settling back on what Lily and Ev were going to wear. "First marriage, white, of course," Ev laughed. They weren't even close to matching, but the individual styles suited each so it didn't matter. They were going for happy and uplifting, not Diana and Charles, Part II. I'm sure Ducky's silence passed unnoticed.

/ / / / /

The wedding was slated for the Saturday after Thanksgiving at All Souls Unitarian Church. After Lexi's interesting version of grace at Thanksgiving, I pulled the girls aside and asked if they were 100% sure they wanted Lexi to be in the wedding. God only knows what Kevin (who was invited, along with the rest of my clan) could come up with. "They _had_ to get married, they're both pregnant!" would be right down his alley. And Lexi, sweet, trusting Lexi, would babble it word for word to all and sundry. But, no, they stood staunchly by their choice. And she pulled it off. She carried a basket rose petals which she tossed by the fistful every few feet; the rings were tied to a tiny pillow on the top of the basket handle. When she was about halfway down the aisle, Charlie, in a lighter shade of "purpow," followed. When they were both at the railing, waiting patiently, Lily and Evelyn started down the aisle.

There was some hemming and hawing as to how to do it. Neither girl had parents at this point. Lily didn't have any grandparents; Ev thought she did, but had no clue where they were since they had been estranged from her mother for years before she died. They both wanted Ducky to escort them, but no matter how they played with the logistics, it just didn't work. (I suggested Gibbs escort one of them; Ev suggested that was not a good idea. They certainly liked him and he was invited, (and said he would be pleased to attend)—but he wasn't family the way Ducky was.)

Charlie suggested her grandfather and Lily cautiously approached him. He was flattered, touched, and pleased to accept. He attended church with Mrs. Kemmelbacher because it was just easier than rocking the boat but he was quite fond of Lily and genuinely liked Evelyn; if there was a voice of sanity in that household, he was it.

So while Charlie and Lexi waited with the minister, a young man named Ed Jerrold, Lily strolled down the aisle on the arm of Mr. Kemmelbacher. I've always maintained that she could quit the genealogy biz and make a ton of money as a model, even at the ripe old age of thirty-six-in-a-week; today was far from an exception. Already a good 5'9", she wore a raw silk sheath with seed pearl embroidery that made her look even taller. Hair curled and pinned and falling down her back, she was the picture of elegance. After she arrived, Evelyn, walking proudly beside Ducky, made her own entrance. While she had pooh-poohed the idea of any kind of historical period for the wedding, there were definite Ren Faire leanings to her outfit. Hoop skirt of satin, overskirt of lace with crystal embellishment and a bosom-crushing stomacher that was beaded to a fare-thee-well; Ev was definitely more into glitz and fluff than Lily was. She still managed to be more sedate than, say, the dress Nia Vardalos wore in _My Big Fat Greek Wedding_.

When Ducky and Ev arrived, he and Mr. Kemmelbacher each gave a good luck kiss to the bride they had escorted, neatly crossed over to salute the other, then took their places in the congregation. There was no bride's side/bride's side seating; you sat where you wanted to, so both sides of the church were pretty equal. We were on the left side of the church, along with Mother (of course), Suzy (of course), and a couple of members of Team Gibbs. On the right hand side were the Kemmelbachers, one of Lily's brothers (she had never tracked down the other one), Gibbs, Abby and Geoff (despite the fact hat they weren't dating at the moment, they were still, as always, on friendly terms and perfectly happy to sit together). Lily's Aunt Jeanette, once described as 'not a people person,' had sent her regrets and a lovely Waterford vase. Ev still had one brother in a rehabilitation facility (a stroke had turned his brain to porridge, but his body still refused to quit) and a second who stubbornly visited him on a weekly basis. He hadn't seen Ev in over ten years; when it sounded like finances would keep him away, Ducky quickly stepped in and provided a ticket and hotel lodging as his gift to the girls. (Like they needed another blender?) Add to it that both girls have lots of friends and we ended that the pews were pretty full.

It was a lovely ceremony. Relatively short, tears from many eyes (mine included) (and Ducky's, of course; he is such a sentimentalist)—and at the end long, loud applause and cheers from the throng.

I was a little surprised when Ev hunted me down for pictures. "Come on, we have Lexi as the flower girl and Ducky as my escort, you and Grandma have to be there for the rest of the family."

If I was surprised at the request, I was downright shocked at the rest of the group: Mr. _and_ Mrs. Kemmelbacher stood just to the side of Lily… and she was smiling. 'She' meaning Mrs. Kemmelbacher; Lily is always smiling, even if it's just a hint around the corners of her mouth. It wasn't a huge smile—but it was either the genuine article or she's one hell of an actress.

Pictures, pictures, pictures. All the while there was a gorgeous cake spread over its' own 4x4 table, waiting patiently to be sliced. (I didn't peek. We arrived early and I helped set up.)

Finally the photographer declared _fini_ and we were able to relax. "There will be more during the reception," Lily reminded us.

"I remember at our wedding…"

I held my breath and looked at Mrs. Kemmelbacher cautiously.

"The photographer took so long, the roast beef was stone cold."

Mr. Kemmelbacher laughed. "And your father walked around for the rest of the evening muttering, 'Thirty bucks a plate… thirty bucks a plate…'"

"They _ate_ it, I don't know why he was so upset…" She reached out and hesitantly touched Lily's arm. "You both… look quite lovely, dear."

Lily smiled broadly. "Thank you."

Ev caught my eye for a second before adding her own thanks.

"I hope—" She worked at finding the right words. "That you'll be very happy together.

"Thank you," Ev said again.

"We are," Lily said. She flashed Ev a grin. "We will be."

As we headed toward the parish hall, the buckle from Ev's shoe got caught on a petticoat. I quickly squatted down to untangle her; when I stood back up, she was staring after the rest of the group a few yards ahead, a puzzled look on her face. "I never thought…"

"Thought what?" I prompted when she drifted off.

"Never thought she'd really warm up to me."

"Nobody can resist you forever," I said flippantly.

She didn't rise to the bait. "It's not that…"

Again with the silence. "What _is_ it, then?"

"She has pictures of Hannah, Ruth and Peter on the mantle. The first time I was over there, you could have knocked me with a two-by-four and I wouldn't have noticed. You know how Fran and Lily look a lot alike? Ruth and I could be twins. Later on, when Lily told me what happened to Ruth—I figured Mrs. K hated me because every time she saw _me,_ she saw Ruth. I was alive—and Ruth wasn't. That plus being a lesbian… I figured I was in her black books forever."

We started down the hallway. "Wonder what happened to bring her around?"

Ev just smiled at me. "What else? Ducky."


	37. When The Kids Are Quiet—It's Too Late

September, 2013

* * *

><p><strong>When The Kids Are Quiet—It's Too Late To Worry<strong>

Even before Lexi was able to hold a crayon—let alone use one—Ducky took a leaf from Chanda and Jerry's book: he extended the garage into the backyard and created an art studio for Lexi. It even had a sink with both hot and cold water—and the hot water had an instant-on tank with a locked thermostat, so even if Lexi turned on straight hot water she couldn't get burned. His theory was an art room away from the house would control the mess. Hopefully.

And he was right. If she wasn't at school or with me at the store or hanging with Grandma, she was either squirreled away somewhere with her nose in a book or in her Paris Loft (as Charlie christened the room, even going so far as to paint _Mlle. Alexandra Mallard's Paris Loft_ on the door). And between the sealed concrete floor and the set-in sink—the mess in the house _was_ kept to a minimum. (Don't ask about when she helped me cook.) We even borrowed the art room to make Christmas ornaments—the room is a must for any parent. Totally worth the expense.

And it's not like she was out of sight/out of mind. I was frequently out there joining in the fun; if I was in the house, I was summoned every five or ten minutes for admiration or input. Victoria is often out there as well (I don't know which of them is the bigger concern, but Suzy is content to sit out with them so it's safe no matter what). And she wasn't left alone until she proved that she could use everything in that room properly and safely (and just about every kids' art supply is non-toxic).

Kindergarten. The school year had just started. Lexi had a dozen new friends. I had a dozen new responsibilities (some I volunteered for, some I was coaxed or coerced into, some… some I don't know _what_ happened, they just appeared in my universe). Miss Westerna was a wonderful teacher, enthusiastic, creative and able to control a room full of five-year-olds without resorting to a cattle prod. She amazed me.

At the end of the first week, we got the school picture announcement. Next Wednesday, 9 a.m., please avoid pale blue clothing to prevent your child from disappearing into the background. For those who missed the day, makeup session Friday, same time. Even though she had worn the most god-awful collection of clothing on her first day of school, Lexi was conscious of what would and wouldn't look good for a formal picture. That Saturday morning we went through every nice outfit in her closet—and I do mean _every_ nice outfit. Many of them were discarded because they were too small—pretty holiday outfits she had outgrown and I didn't have the heart to give them away just yet. The ones that _did_ fit were too formal. Remembering that the pictures would just be head and shoulders for the most part, we concentrated on tops and she settled on a shirt she had tie-dyed her last year in preschool.

Crisis averted, Lexi ran off to her art room and I ran off to do laundry. Ducky had been called in to a crime scene and Mother was in bed with the tail end of a short but nasty cold so things were pretty quiet.

_Too_ quiet.

If my life were a movie, that would be the sign for the soft, slightly ominous music to cue up. A mysterious shadow or a shark fin circling around would be a perfect touch. But, no, I was Olivia Oblivious, running back and forth between the kitchen and the basement for the next couple of hours. (One of these days we'll build the laundry room we keep talking about. Things keep getting in the way.)

Hours?

I glanced at the clock. Good grief, it was almost lunchtime. Lexi hadn't popped in for a replacement snack; she must _really_ be into what she was doing. I checked on Mother; sleeping like a log and sounding like she was sawing through one or two. I popped out to Lexi's Loft and stuck my head inside the door. "Hey, monster child, you have a choice of ham and grilled cheese sand—"

My words cut off before my mind fully registered the sight. I stared at her for a full two minutes, then finally managed: "What. Happened." It took another minute to get out the rest. "To. Your. _HAIR?_"

They probably heard me in Toledo.

Lexi looked frantic. "I—I dunno…"

"You _don't know?_ How can you _not know!_ This is _your hair!_ There is a _three_-_inch_ _hole in your hair!_ In the _middle_ of your _forehead!_" I grabbed my own hair in frustration.

"Um…"

"Did your head leave your body for an hour? Were you _trying_ to look like an ad for male pattern baldness? Why in the name of—" I cut myself off with an inarticulate noise before I said something I'd _really_ regret. In the back of my mind I heard my mother laughing as I realized I was channeling Bill Cosby at the moment. "Why?" I finally said, almost whimpering.

"I—I wanted _bangs_. And they kept not being even. So I kept…" She held up her kiddie scissors.

Yeah, rounded tip scissors can't hurt. Wanna bet? I sighed in defeat. After all, I had never told her "don't cut your own hair." Great; now I was channeling Jean Kerr _and_ Bill Cosby. "Okay… we'll think of _something _to get you through class pictures next week." Headband, scarf, burka, something… I put my hand on her shoulder and propelled her toward the door. "And in case I forget later on—don't cut your hair again. And please don't eat the daisies!"


	38. Semantics, Schmantics

August, 2014

* * *

><p><strong>Semantics, Schmantics<strong>

"Are you moving away to a college dorm? Or opening your own darn house?" I grumbled.

"It's not _that_ bad," Charlie teased back. "Or are you just out of shape?"

"Out of shape! You little—"

"Mommy! Don't be a bad example!" Lexi grabbed the portable TV-DVD player and headed toward the dorm.

"Lexi! That's too heavy—" I started to object.

"Who do you think has been hauling it around the house the past year?" Ev asked in a most irritating tone of sweet reason. She opened the back seat of Charlie's car (formerly her own Saturn wagon) and stopped. "_Charlotte_!"

Ooh, someone is in the doghouse. "Mom?"

"_What_ is Sherman doing here?"

Not _dog_house…

Earlier that year two cats had appeared on the back porch at Ev and Lily's house. Barely past kittenhood, they were bedraggled, wet and half-starved. Within a week, they had the household wrapped around their paws and had been named "Mr. Peabody and his cat, Sherman." Sherman was Charlie's favorite and vice versa.

"Um… going to school?"

Ev put her hands on her hips. "You freeping idiot, now we have to drive all the way back home with that cat!"

"No, no, he can stay!"

Lily joined us from the back of my van, a milk crate of books in hand. "You seem to forget that part of the Old Dominion student handbook—'the only pets allowed in dorm rooms are _fish',_" she quoted.

"Well…" Charlie had on her game face. I'm sure it made her moms as uneasy as it made me (and would have made Ducky, except he was sitting up in the dorm room while we schlepped stuff back and forth; it kept us from having to lock and unlock the door every time). "I already talked with my assigned roommate. She's cool with Sherman moving in."

"I don't care if she's a Popsicle, _you aren't allowed pets other than fish!_" Lily hissed, trying to keep anyone who might be in charge from overhearing.

"Oh, that's okay! I'm changing Sherm's name to Fish—that way, if anyone asks, 'Do you have any pets in there?' I can honestly say, 'Just Fish!'" Charlie said brightly.

(The sad part is… they kept the litter pan so clean and the other rooms on the floor were so awful, nobody suspected for the entire year there was a cat in residence. That says something about the youth of America… I'm not sure _what_, but it says _something_…)

* * *

><p>You know these tales are stolen from real life. Do you even have to <em>ask<em> whose kid was the basis for this one?

Yes, I am still on hiatus. Yes, I am still packing. (Boy, is _this_ an experience…) But, you see, I was at the library and had some time to kill on the computer (my own is totally blocked off at the moment; don't ask). So… I cheated. Instead of going home and packing (there has to be an end, there _has_ to be!) I played hooky and posted the shortest chapter I've ever written.

Okay. Back to the salt mines...


	39. Madness Takes Its' Toll

March, 2009

* * *

><p><strong>Madness Takes Its' Toll (Please Have Exact Change)<strong>

I don't recall the exact wording and numbers, but George Carlin did a routine about things you lose on Earth that are returned to you in heaven—72 pairs of sunglasses, eight sets of keys, 361 ballpoint pens and 497 single, mismatched socks.

"Pink."  
>"Multi-color polka dots."<br>"Lavender."  
>"Lilac?"<br>"Same thing, put it on the pile."  
>"Green, yellow, blue, different blue, another blue—"<p>

I remember hearing a theory that the heat of the dryer coupled with the centrifugal force of the rotating drum sends a sock into a parallel dimension. Years from now, NASA will send a craft into another universe—and they'll run smack into a cloud of single, mismatched socks. (Probably with George Carlin sitting in the middle of it.)

From the time I started doing my own laundry, I had a different idea. There's a sock monster built into every dryer, and every so often it requires a sacrifice. (I swear I heard the dryer burp. Of course, that was in college, right after the 60s…)

"Oh, these are adorable."  
>"They're <em>all<em> adorable, dang it."

I love Charlie. She's intelligent, well read, caring, compassionate, witty, just a shade snarky sometimes—and willing to help at the drop of a hat. If Allie turns out even remotely like big sister/Auntie Charlie, I'll be thrilled.

"Teal, turquoise, China blue, sea-foam green, orange—"  
>"That's <em>orange?<em>"  
>"I think it used to be yellow and got mixed up with a red load."<br>"That's—uh—"  
>"Yeah, a pretty nausea-inducing color. I vote we ditch one or both, whatever we end up with."<br>"Agreed."

Before Allie put in an appearance, Charlie and her moms were long in the habit of spending weekends with us. Mother loved having all of "her girls" in residence, Ducky made jokes about being the lone navigator in a sea of estrogen, we frequently cooked dinner as a committee—and Lily and Ev were more than happy to kick the new parents out of the house and babysit until Saturday night became Sunday morning. (We weren't stupid. We left.)

"White, white, white, Abby, white, Abby, white—"  
>"Off-white, bright white, creamy white, white with lace, white without lace—"<br>"The white pile is getting pretty high..."  
>"I know, I know…and I state categorically there isn't a pair among them!"<p>

So here she was, blowing off a Saturday morning helping me… sort socks.

Like so many other things, baby socks are too damned cute. We had gotten more stuff from more people than I could imagine but baby socks were the top of the list. Once word got out that Ducky was _finally_ married and _oh, my gosh_ going to be a father, there wasn't a day for the three months before Allie was born and the three months after that there wasn't a baby shower, a gift left on his desk or a surprise appearing in the mail. Mother found the one credit card Ducky still kept in her name and went bananas online (with help from Charlie—who didn't realize Mother shouldn't be using a credit card that was, hello, in her name—it was hers, so she saw nothing wrong) and we ended up with everything from a convertible crib to a Little Lord Fauntleroy sailor suit. Ducky shook his head and sighed; all the money is in his name, so it was like we were buying gifts for ourselves—but, hey, she had fun. (He returned the sailor suit even before we knew Allie was an Alexandra and not an Alexander. He saw no reason to traumatize an innocent child.)

But baby socks were "the" gift item. Infant car seat from Abby—half a dozen packs of socks tucked in the box. (Abby's, at least, were easy to match. Allie's birth was just in time for all the Halloween-themed clothes to hit the stores, which was as close to baby goth as Abby could manage.) Ziva showed a surprising crafty side—artsy-crafty, not sneaky-crafty. She took the socks and turned them into flowers, used pipe cleaners to attach them to green dowels and gave us a vase full of baby socks in a rainbow of colors. Some day I'll ask where she learned it. The crib attachment that played "Hush, Little Baby" (Uncle Jethro) came with a dozen "onesies" (whoever came up with those is a bloody genius) and a box of the frilliest, floofiest girly-girl socks ever made. Baby socks came from everyone and everywhere. Literally from around the globe: pink, yellow, pale green, lilac, salmon—with lace, without lace, cotton, poly-blend, hand knitted, every shade of white, stripes, polka dots, squiggly lines, tie-dyed (Ray and Barb strike again)—eighty billion socks, piles of every color and dozens _almost_ identical in each pile but _just enough different_ that they weren't a matched set.

"Okay…these two are almost right, but the ribbing on the first one is thinner."  
>"The pink is the same on these, but the lace on the first one is scalloped and the second one is a straight band."<br>"These are the same—but different sizes. One's a half-inch longer at the top."  
>"Are you sure? Maybe one just got stretched…"<p>

Health-Tex pink socks are just a _hair_ darker than Carters', Gerber and Target are identical colors but the ribbing is totally different—you can go out of your freaking mind with this.

"Why is it so important?" Ducky asked at one point. "From a distance, they look identical, no one will notice."

I gave him a look. _I am her mother and __**I**__ will notice_. He took the hint and retreated to the kitchen to confer with Lily and Ev about dinner.

"You know…" Charlie said slowly, "She's almost outgrown these socks anyway…"

"Don't remind me," I groaned.

"All of my dolls had real clothing," she offered.

"As opposed to _un_real?"

"No," she said patiently. "As opposed to the schlock the doll manufacturer put on the doll before entombing it in a cardboard coffin with a cellophane window. _My_ dolls all wore 'baby' clothing—my mother saved it all from when I was Alexandra's age."

"Good idea for what she's outgrown. But what about—" I gestured to the piles of pink and lavender and blue and oh, dear heavens, _white_ socks that were still mateless.

She glanced around and leaned over. "My vote," she whispered, "Is shove them all in a storage bin, put it at the back of the closet until she starts playing with dolls—and you and I take a drive to Costco or Sam's Club and buy eight or ten bags of socks _all_ the same color_ all_ the same manufacturer. You may still lose a sock in the dryer, you may have an odd number at the end of the week—but they'll always pair up."

Now, why didn't _I_ think of that?

* * *

><p>See, I'm still here.<p>

I'm still packing.  
>I still have no set place to land.<br>And my daughter, inspiration for so many of these tales, is getting married tomorrow.

The title of this chapter is all too appropriate.

And I am embarrassed to admit how many years it took me to come up with "buy all white socks from Costco" to simplify my life.


	40. Don't Think I'm Helpless

…_for Callie_

March, 2014

* * *

><p><strong>Don't Think I'm Helpless Just Because I'm Cute And Cuddly!<strong>

Even in this technological age, there are some things of childhood that remain stable. Blocks. Tinkertoys. Skates. (Thingmakers, unfortunately, are no longer around.) Oh, the parts may change a little—polyurethane wheels instead of ankle-numbing metal ones—but the basic elements remain the same.

Such as… bicycles…

Lexi's first experience with pedal-powered transportation was a tricycle. Not a Big Wheel—a _proper_ tricycle. Metal. Sky blue with multicolored flowers (assembled by Uncle Jethro, decorated by Aunties Ziva and Abby). She rode it until she was miles too big for it, then graduated to a purple and pink psychedelic toddler bike (the kind with perma-bond training wheels).

Next step: big kid bike…

…with _removable_ training wheels.

With a small child in residence, Ducky and I had rediscovered bicycling as an art form. No, you don't forget…but dragging the technique out of long-term memory and into current usage is difficult, to say the least. (And skinned knees at 57 as opposed to 7 are a killer; I swear Bactine worked better when I was a kid.) But after a few months, we were chugging right along.

Physician, heal thyself—Ducky discovered regular biking helped his bad knee almost as much as swimming did. We three took regular evening rides, looping and swirling up and down the bike path to the small park down the way, where we'd make a leisurely circuit and note the day to day changes in the plots of flowers: big, fat, showy petunias, smiling pansies, dancing snapdragons. After the New Year, every so often Lexi would mention training wheels and the removal thereof; Ducky would point out something and deflect her attention. Helmet or no, he was very reluctant to let go of anything that would help her stay safe. (I had a picture of a loop on her I-pod: "look both ways… come to a complete stop… don't insist on the right of way…" well until she leaves grad school.)

But Lexi can be very insistent. She wanted those wheels off _and_ she wanted to start riding her bike to school. She was a smart negotiator: ask for more than you want, "settle" and end up with what you wanted in the first place. She knew Daddy wasn't going to let her ride to school on her own—but it would make him more likely to remove those blasted wheels. Riding to school could be renegotiated later.

It was with great reluctance that he unbolted the little side wheels and set them on the worktable in the garage. We took turns holding on to the back bar of the bike, running with Lexi, letting go, letting her wobble and crash. Every skinned knee and scraped elbow, Ducky would shoot me a, "See? See?" look as he cleaned and bandaged her booboos.

But she is a determined child. Each time we held on and ran with her, she'd object. "I can do it myself!" she demanded. "I'm not a baby! Let go!"

I finally took myself out of the picture and stepped aside, but Ducky continued to fuss and squawk and run with her wobbling bike down the walk.

"Let go!"

"Lexi, it's too soon! Let me put the wheels back on—"

"No!" She braked to a hard stop and they almost ended up in a heap on the concrete. "Let go of me, Daddy! I can do it by myself!" She actually glowered at him a little until he released the sissy bar and reluctantly stepped away. "Let go," she repeated, even though he no longer held on. She pushed off, wobbled a few feet, started to fall; he stepped forward and stopped himself just in time. She leaned way over… stopping with her foot on the ground before she fell completely over. Pedal. Wobble. Lean. Stop. Pedal. Wobble. Lean. Stop. Pedal. Wobble. Lean… recover… pedal more… wobble… pedal… pedal… pedal, pedal, pedal… Away she went, down the walk to Mrs. McKirk's house; a slow, shaky U-turn in the driveway, then back past us, more sure of herself this time. "I'm not a baby!" she called out, still fighting the fight she had won.

Ducky watched her ride off to the edge of the Harrisons' property. Even from where I stood at the top of the drive, I could see the wistful look on his face. "Oh, sweetheart…" The wind had shifted and his whisper carried back to me. "You'll always be my baby… and I will _never_ let you go."


	41. All Is Not Lost—But Much Is Misplaced

August, 2015

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><p><strong>All Is Not Lost—But Much Is Misplaced<strong>

I don't "do" camping.

Oh, sure, when I was a kid I went on Girl Scout campouts. Enjoyed them, even. (Big difference when I helped keep a herd of Brownies under control for a weekend. Now I understand why my troop leader had a permanent furrow between her eyebrows.) But over the years, I've come to appreciate the words "room service" and see no reason to trade down.

And, since Ducky looks damned fine in a tux, it never occurred to me that I had married Grizzly Adams.

"You're joking." The only thing that would have shocked me more would be a positive pregnancy test at the ripe old age of 59.

Abby was almost literally bouncing around the living room. "It's so great! I haven't been camping in, wow, fifteen years?"

"Since you were ten?" I said with mild sarcasm. The woman just does _not_ age. It's disgusting.

"No, since I was—" She broke off and gave me a sunny smile. "Older than ten."

"I'm not…_keen_…on camping," I said carefully.

"You had fun when we went to Willow Ridge," Lexi piped up.

_I lied_, I thought.

"It's going to be fun," Abby argued. "It's not even _camping_."

"Tents? Sleeping bags?" She nodded. "That's camping," I said.

"_We're_ using tents. There's a cabin with a kitchen and one bedroom, we figured you and Ducky would want that. Lexi can bunk in with Ziva and me," Abby said brightly. And winked. (She had been campaigning for a little brother or sister for Lexi for years. Subtle.)

"And you guys aren't wanting to put bags on the floor instead of camping in _tents_?" I tried not to sound _too_ disgusted.

Tim shook his head. "Not enough room. I remember being there as a kid. Kitchen-slash-dining area that can seat two… maybe three, with Lex… and one bedroom. No such thing as a living room. And a bathroom." He made a face. "Really _small_ bathroom. But it works." He had inherited the cabin from a very long-lost uncle and wanted to check out the property in person before deciding to keep or sell. It quickly turned into a team trip over the weekend; how Ducky and I got involved, I'm not too sure.

Okay, Ducky, I could understand. One, he's part of the group and, two, if you're camping out in BFE, it's not a bad idea to have someone with medical knowledge—just in case. But how did _I_ get involved?

Loose lips sink ships. Something was mentioned in the hearing of our favorite Girl Scout and if _Daddy_ was going camping, why couldn't she? Uncle Timmy had no problem with her coming along—and if she and Daddy were going along, well, Mommy shouldn't be left home, should she? (Mommy says "yes.")

So the first weekend of August we loaded a rental SUV with everything 8 people could possibly need. Dr. and Mrs. Palmer and their twins were excused from this excursion, lucky dogs. Since McGee's engagement had quietly been broken and DiNozzo was between loves of his life, Ducky and I were the only couple in residence—so, yes, it did make sense that we were given the one and only bedroom.

Too bad it was unusable.

"Gangbangers?" DiNozzo guessed, looking at the trashed interior.

"No graffiti," Abby said.

"Juvenile delinquents?" Ziva suggested.

Gibbs shook his head and snorted. "Possums and raccoons, most likely." He pointed to the gaping holes in the mattress. "Nice, warm padding for burrows. That loose shutter by the front door was easy access for the critters but kept the bad weather out."

McGee sighed. "Sorry, Ducky; sorry, Sandy. Looks like the Hilton isn't open for business."

I forced forth a game smile. "No problem. We can drive back to town—" (_And park ourselves at the No-Tell Mo-Tel._) "—and pick up a couple of sleeping bags and just sleep on the floor."

"There's room in the tents—" Ducky started. And stopped. He's going to hit 73 in a month. He'd like to make that a certainty. Stopping that train of thought was a good way to do it.

"Too bad Grandma isn't here," Lexi sighed. "Possums and raccoons? She would have thought that was too cool!" I just rolled my eyes. She would have.

We unloaded the SUV and parked it around the bend and set to making camp. No such thing as a pup tent—the smallest, a 4-person, was for Gibbs on his lonesome. (RHIP.) The boys had one 6-person tent, the three girls another. Whoever marked those tents had to be thinking Munchkins. Even six people my size would have a hard go of it. Even six people _Lexi's_ size would have a hard go of it. But for two nights, it would work. Camp chairs, camp table, coolers of food—by noon there was a nice little city set up and we had a list of what was needed to make the cabin survivable.

And… we weren't alone.

No, not the possums, raccoons and other wildlife. These visitors were two-legged. A couple of guys in a battered green truck drove by, probably heading for the campground several miles down the road. They stared at our group for a long moment (until Gibbs out-stared them), then drove off. About a half hour later they were back, heading the other way. They drove past our encampment, stopped, backed up…stared…looked at each other…stared again…looked at each other again.

About the time Gibbs looked like he was going to go over and, ah, introduce himself, the driver called out, "Hey!"

"Yeah?" came the laconic response from the NCIS fearless leader.

The men looked at each other, then the driver pointed to the collection of vehicles. We had crammed most of the supplies in the SUV that was now parked behind the cabin, and Gibbs and DiNozzo had been the designated drivers. Abby and Ziva followed in Ziva's cute little Mini Cooper, and Tim had joined Ducky, Lexi and me (and the last odds and ends) in our small sedan. (Like we'd take the Morgan?) "How did you get all of _that_ in _those_?"

Gibbs looked bemused and Tim and Tony exchanged "duh" eyerolls. Abby snorted faintly, but it was Ziva that answered:

"We took out the spare," she said cheerfully.

After a _long_ moment the driver said, "Oh, okay," politely and drove off.

"He probably figured you're a dumb blonde with a dye job," I laughed. She just grinned and offered to drive us into town to shop.

Before I could decline (Coopers are dinky cars; where would we put my knees, let alone the sleeping bags?), Tony snored faintly. "Not even if you take out the spare. McScout says the cabin needs a new propane tank, so we need to take the SUV." He jerked his head toward the vehicle. "Come on, campers." He headed off, twanging the theme from _Deliverance_ as he went.

"Do you want me to come along?" Ducky asked.

"Afraid I won't come back?"

"Yes," he said truthfully.

"Busted. I'll come back—" I leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek and muttered, "But if you ever suggest camping again…"

"It will be at the Marriott," he murmured back.

"Smart man."

It was a helluva drive to the only "big" town but at least Sears had camping gear on sale. I grabbed an air mattress ("That's cheating," Tony taunted. "We were supposed to be on a bed," I retorted. "Even-Steven.") and two sleeping bags that we could zip together, plus a couple of thermal blankets. August or not, we had been warned that it got darn chilly at night. We found the largest rental tank, packed it securely in the back, filled the gas tank of the SUV and headed back, hoping to make it before dark.

The CAUTION DEER XING signs didn't make it any more comfortable of a drive. "My parents hit a deer, oh, jeez, I think I was five? That was the old Chevvy, Dad was thinking of replacing it, boy, he had to replace it then, let me tell you."

"Your dad killed Bambi's mom?" Tony gasped in mock horror.

"Yeah, and Bambi's mama totaled our car, and that was old Detroit steel, not the _**TONY**__!_"

My scream, a _WHUMP!_ and the SUV spinning in circles as it slid up the road all happened at once.

"Are you okay? Are you okay? Oh, god, if you're hurt, Ducky's gonna _kill_ me—"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," I panted as my heart rate started to drop from the ten thousand range. "You?"

"I'm good, oh, man, the air bags, jeez, that costs a fortune—" I hadn't even noticed the airbags had deployed in the collision. That explained the pain in my ribcage. "What _was_ that?"

"Bambi's mama?" I said flippantly. We climbed out of the vehicle and looked around. The damage was contained to the left front and could have been a lot worse. It was still driveable, at least. Well, almost. The fender had caved in and shredded the tire—if someone could pull it out, we could pop on the spare and be on our way. The propane tank was fine; it had slid around a bit, but nothing was broken, dented or even dinged. We headed back down the highway to see what the hell we had hit.

"Hello? Hello?" Tony was trying to catch a signal and finally lucked out. "Hey, yes, we've had an accident—no, no injuries—no, we were heading north on Callahan Highway—no, I don't know if it's _Old_ Callahan or _New_ Callahan, it's Callahan out of Crossed Creek—oh." He gave me a broad, fake smile. "That's _New_ Callahan," he whispered. "Our vehicle is at mile marker 42, the accident happened about a quarter mile back—no, something ran out in front of us, we hit—no, I don't know _what_—" He stopped walking and talking. "Oh."

I followed his gaze… and stared. At the side of the road stood a donkey, looking at us with a rather befuddled expression. "Maybe we gave him a concussion?" I said quietly.

"We, uh, we appear to have hit a donkey."

I could hear the incredulous, "_Donkey?"_ without straining.

"Yeah, a donkey."

"Sir, are you sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure! I'm looking right at him."

"We don't _have_ donkeys in the area, you must have hit a _deer_—"

His patience snapped. "Lady, I've seen _Shrek_ and I've seen _Bambi!_" His voice went sideways and he did a perfect imitation of a green ogre. "And Ah know the difference between a donk'y and a deer! _This_ is a frickin' _donk'y!_"

I shouldn't have laughed. But I couldn't help myself.

"Mrs. Mallard!" he called sharply, pointing to the donkey. I giggled. "Is this, or is this not, a donk'y?" He was still talking like Shrek.

"It's, ah, it's a donkey," I said loudly.

"Sir, there are no—"

I pulled out my cell phone and snapped some pictures. The donkey (or, "donk'y") just stood and stared amiably back. I switched to camcorder mode, but it was pretty dull; he just stood there and watched me. Come on, fella, you could be the next YouTube star!

"Trust me. Send a tow truck. The driver will see the donkey!"

After exchanging more pertinent data, we trudged back to the truck to wait. "Whaddya think the chances of reception up at the cabin are?"

Tony shrugged. "As good as we have here. There was an antenna on the roof—well, a fallen-over antenna. So Tim's great-uncle Whozits used to get one or two stations up there before convertor boxes hit the planet."

Nodding to myself I typed out a text message and sent it, along with pictures of the truck and the donkey (being sure to emphasize "We're fine" over and over). "Hey. Triple-A is here." I pointed to the tow-truck heading our way. Heading our way from the wrong direction.

The driver slowed down and made a nice u-turn to our side of the road. (Callahan Highway isn't exactly Interstate 10. No heavy traffic. No traffic, period.) "Folks have a accident?"

Tony smiled. Grimaced, even. "Yes. We hit a donkey—"

The man burst into laughter. "Donkey! We don't have donkeys here!"

Teeth clenched, Tony pointed over the man's shoulder. "Wanna bet?"

The driver, whose blue shirt had the name _Bud_ embroidered on it (not sure if it was his name or beer preference), followed where DiNozzo was pointing. For the longest moment he just stared. And stared. And stared some more. "Well… I'll be damned." He strolled back to the cab of his truck and grabbed the mic. "Hey! Sheila! You'll never believe this—they really _did_ hit a donkey!"

Tony moaned softly. "Please. Tell me you packed some booze. Any booze."

My cell phone pinged. I pulled up the message and decided against reading it aloud. _Jethro says, and I quote: One damned donkey in the state and trust DiNozzo to find it. The deductible is on HIS ass._ "Yep," I said cheerfully. "Ducky's got a bottle of scotch somewhere, I'm sure."

DiNozzo watched the driver poke at the caved-in fender; the driver shook his head slowly and Tony groaned again. "I call dibs!"


	42. Knowledge Is Knowing A Tomato Is A Fruit

A/N: After **_The Vast, Terrible In-Between_**, I feel I kind of owe you a happier tale. Hope this suffices.

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><p>June 2008September 2008

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><p><strong>Knowledge Is Knowing A Tomato Is A Fruit;<br>****Wisdom Is Not Putting It In A Fruit Salad.**

My husband is a marvelous conversationalist. That's a nice way of saying he can talk on any subject at any moment and for any length of time.

His friends put up with it pretty well, though I've heard he is frequently told to "cut to the chase" at work. At home, they let him ramble and chatter (hey, it's _his_ home), and I generally love listening to him. One, I love his voice. Two… I love his voice. Three… I frequently learn something. (You thought I was going to say "I love his voice" again. Fooled 'ja.) Four… I love his voice. (Ha!)

Ducky is able to talk to anyone about anything. Or no one about nothing. Children generally adore him; so do the elderly. (Well, except for his mother. You know what they say, familiarity breeds contempt.)

So when he's quiet, it's unusual. Sometimes he's just bone tired, barely able to stay awake through dinner; forget intelligent conversation, he's doing well to not eat his salad with a spoon and ice cream with a fork. Sometimes he has an ugly case weighing on his mind, and he's trying to sort out who, what, when, where, why and how regarding the latest roommate in Autopsy. Twice he's been sick (and that'll take the wind out of your sails for a while). But for all those exceptions to the rule, there's an exception to the exceptions…

/ / /

"Is Uncle Ducky… vexed? With me, I mean?"

"If he has, he hasn't mentioned it to me… Do you see a bag of rick-rack anywhere?" I'd been hunting up, down, left and right for the damned thing for an hour.

Charlie glanced around the room and grabbed the Jo-Ann's bag that was sitting in plain sight. "He's just so… remote. And he has the oddest expression looking at me, looking at you—"

My ears pricked up. "What sort of odd expression?" I started pulling cellophane off the packets of rick-rack. The baby was due in September; with any luck, I'd have the curtains for his/her room ready by then.

She pulled out a pack of trim and removed the wrapper, staring distractedly as she did so. Three packs later she said, "Melancholy."

That stopped me in my tracks. "Melancholy," I repeated. "Melancholy as in glum, depressed—" Just the thing an expectant mother wants to hear about the expectant father.

"Perhaps… pensive is a better choice."

Marginally better. But it made me stop and look at the past few days a little more closely.

He _had_ been kind of quiet. No, not kind of—_very_.

And I started realizing other things. He was asking other people to do things for him. Not me—looking like I was about to give birth to the Goodyear blimp had me firmly on the "you sit, let me do that" list of everyone in the house (including Mother, heaven help us). No… if he wanted the crock pot that somehow migrated from the bottom shelf to the top he asked one of the girls to "be a dear and fetch that for me?" instead of dragging over the stepstool. Or asking Ev to run to the store for a few things instead of "popping out for a bit" on his own. He was going to bed early. _Way_ early. If not, he was falling asleep in his chair—not at 11:00, when he closed his eyes for just a moment between paragraphs, but at 7:30, right after dinner. And he stopped walking to the park with me.

It had become a ritual of sorts. He had checked with Dr. Lester about what I could and could not do as the pregnancy progressed; walking was definitely on her A List. I am inherently lazy and had no desire to join the other pregnant women at the gym, struggling to get into workout clothes—but when my husband says, "Walk with me to the park, my love?" there is no way I'm saying no. It was a nice, leisurely stroll to the little garden a few blocks away, ambling down the pathways to admire the flowers, chatting about the day, good-naturedly arguing over baby names, enjoying a little private time together.

Much as I enjoyed the walks, I would occasionally decline. Being pregnant in the summer has some bad moments. (My cousin Trixi had moved to Arizona while we were in high school. Her kids were half grown and gone by now, but she remembered her pregnancies _very_ well. When I whined about the heat and humidity, she shot back, "Pregnant. 117 degrees. Beat that." I emailed back, "But it's a dry heat!" and got, "SO IS A PIZZA OVEN!" She won.) So Ducky took my occasional, "It's so _humid_ tonight" with good grace and said our exercise could be playing Scrabble. I had whine-declined the prior Monday. We played Scrabble.

He didn't ask Tuesday.

He didn't ask Wednesday.

_I_ asked Thursday… and _he_ declined, saying he was simply exhausted. He _did_ look pooped, so I didn't push it.

But here it was, Saturday. In two days, it would have been two weeks since we last strolled to the park.

I set down the last card of rick-rack. "Who's fixing dinner?"

"Mommy and Mommy," Charlie said promptly. "Stuffed chicken breasts, stuffed tomatoes—"

I gave her an arched eyebrow. "They commenting on my girth?"

"No—Mommy Ev is trying to improve on her kitchen skills."

"Oh. Okay." Somewhat mollified, I glanced at the clock. 3:00. We were both off the hook for cooking dinner, Mother would have her tea soon, and it was a gorgeous day. We'd had an overnight rain that washed away the humidity of the past days and dropped the summer temperature to the high 70s. "Where's Uncle Ducky?"

"In the garage, I believe."

Yep; he was in the garage. Sitting. Staring at the Morgan, not really concentrating. "Hey." I sidled up to him (sort of sidled, anyway) and dropped a kiss on his head. "What'cha doing?"

He shrugged slightly. "Nothing. Just… thinking."

"About what?"

Another faint shrug.

"Well, why don't you come for a walk with me? To the park? You can think about nothing doing that as well as you can sitting here," I said brightly.

After a moment, he shook his head. "It's a bit humid…"

"Actually, it's not, for the first time in a while. It's gorgeous out."

Another pause; another headshake. "I'm rather tired."

"Ducky…" I sat on the padded workbench next to him, turned and tried to tuck one ankle under the opposite thigh; right. Last time I pulled that maneuver was two trimesters ago. "What's wrong? You've been so quiet, so distracted…"

"I'm sorry." He sighed heavily.

I folded my arms. "Are you seeing another woman?"

That shocked him, despite my teasing tone. "Cassandra!"

"Well, then… what's wrong?" I reached over and laced the fingers of our left hands together. "Remember me? For better or worse? You know—wife?"

"Oh… oh, Sandy…" He squeezed my hand lightly, continuing to stare at the car. "I rebuilt it, you know."

I nodded. "Mm-hmm."

"It's older than I am…" (Heck, only Mother can't say that. _His_ mother, that is. I think it's older than my mother, too.) "Automobiles today are so different… More difficult to repair, you need a computer to _fix_ a computer… no carburetors…" He trailed off. "All so different. So… old…"

I could barely hear the last word. We aren't talking about cars; we're using the car as a stand-in. "Old?" I repeated. "Honey, you are _not_ old. Heck, I don't consider _Mother_ old! And _I'm_ sure not old!" I tried to quell the flutter in my heart. '_If I fathered a child now, I would be eighty or thereabouts when that child learned to drive, and I don't think those two demographics should be in a vehicle with a learner's permit between them.' (Man, oh, man—of all the zillion things Ducky has said to me, WHY is that the one that I can't erase from my hard drive?)_ I pointed to the green and white striped t-shirt stretched taut over my belly. "We are _not_ old, fella. This is _not_ a watermelon I'm packin'!"

He gave me a ghost of a smile and forced it to a full blown one. "True enough."

I wriggled around and snuggled against him until his arm slipped around my waist. "So. What put you in this mood?"

He sighed. "Oh… This. That. The other thing… Having a—" His mouth worked. "—_junior_ _agent_ for the FBI—"

(A punk.)

"—call me _Gramps_—"

(Not a punk. Smartass whippersnapper.)

"Ziva made a rather scathing remark—which she refused to translate. It was in Russian."

"How do you know it was scathing?"

"Jethro laughed. His accent is abysmal, but he understands the language fairly well. That plus the agent's eyes bugged out rather comically and he slunk off like a whipped dog."

I smiled. I like Ziva. A lot.

"The next day or so they mentioned that this year marks 55 years since the Rosenbergs were executed for espionage. I said, in passing, that I was a mere lad of ten when that happened; an agent—not on Gibbs' team—blurted out, 'Wow, they got the year wrong?' and "suggested" that this took place in nineteen-_thirty_-three, not nineteen-_fifty-_three… which would make me only fifteen years younger than Mother!"

"Oh. Ow." I winced.

"Well, that was just a glaring example of poor arithmetic and a lack of attention in history class. But the ultimate blow… was hearing _I Can't Get No Satisfaction_." He sighed, looking more chagrined than depressed, now.

"Rolling Stones? Big hit in the 60s." He nodded. "What's so bad about that? You like the Stones. I _know_ you like them." (I chose not to remind him of the time he imitated Jagger singing _Let's Spend the Night Together_ and I fell on the floor, laughing. We both ended up on the floor. Doing more than laughing, too.)

"Yes, but—" He sighed heavily. "It was on an elevator." I looked at him: and? "It was… _Muzaked_."

Ugh. Muzak is for Mantiovani, not Rolling Stones.

"I just feel… old," he said.

"'There's a man out there I haven't seen in fifteen years who's trying to kill me. You show me a son that'd be happy to help. How do I feel? Old... worn out.'" He stared at me. "_Star Trek. Wrath of Khan_."

He rolled his eyes. "It's like being married to Anthony DiNozzo."

Hey. It was a tiny laugh—but better than nothing. "Wanna go upstairs and feel… not old?" I arched my eyebrows suggestively.

He looked pointedly at the watermelon.

"Hey. We have books. And the internet. We're creative!"

"True. But right now…" He stood up and took my hands, tugging me up. "I would rather have a walk in the park with my wife."

/ / / / / / / / / /

My mother was simply scandalized over how new mothers are treated nowadays. "When I had Ray—even when I had you!—I stayed in the hospital for a week. Two days! That isn't enough time to put your name on the door!"

"It's plenty of time," I argued. "The food is dreadful."

"No one will be able to send you flowers! By the time the florist gets the order, you'll be home."

"So, tell anyone who wants to send flowers, send 'em to the house," I said (quite reasonably, I thought).

She "tsk'd." "Cassie, it's not the same."

"You're right. One less thing to haul home."

Ducky was, of course, there for this exchange. Ducky missed nothing. He got there right before Alexandra was born—literally six minutes before showtime—and we had a family room in the Maternity ward. He didn't have to miss a _thing_. They pulled in a substitute M.E. and he was able to not leave my side until I was discharged.

_Our_ sides, that is. Alexandra was barely six hours old and he was never more than four feet away from her—and that was if she had fallen asleep. Family rooms are great: double bed for the mom and dad (or you could opt for a hospital bed for mom and foldout couch or cot for dad) and a crib for the baby. They even had provisions for siblings staying over.

Ducky wandered about the suite, our tiny baby (**JOLT**! Our baby. Wow.) carefully cradled in his arms, talking to her oh-so-softly and looking at her with the most amazed expression. "Oh, Cassandra… she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Wrinkled, blotchy, powdery—yep. Gorgeous. I scooched over so that he and the baby could sit next to me. I was enjoying watching him with her—enjoying it a lot. I've met too many men who are uninterested in their own children at this stage. "I can deal with them when they're older," one young man in our Lamaze class said. The teacher gently pointed out that if you don't relate to them now, you probably won't get the chance later. "So. How do you feel being a daddy?"

He stared down at the wriggling baby in her pale yellow shirt. He looked like he was going to burst with pride and his eyes were shining with joy… and tears. "I feel… _so young!_"

I slipped under his free arm. "I know what you mean."


	43. If You're Looking For Trouble

_A/N Thank you, Tallis224, for the unintentional bunny_

June, 2015

* * *

><p><strong>If You're Looking For Trouble, I Can Give You A Wide Selection<strong>

Before Ducky and I became permanent fixtures in each other's lives, his mother had started a long slide into the often painful, bewildering universe of the Alzheimer's patient. Sometimes she was off in her own world, with her own cast of characters; sometimes she was dead on target for who people were and what was going on. (And who's to say _which_ is the "real world," hmm?)

When Lexi appeared on the scene that seemed to pull her back into our side of the black hole, as though the neurons that were firing in proper synch had joined forces and moved into one house. Ducky likened it to a terminal patient pulling forth the will to live through a major holiday or event; I misunderstood his meaning and gave him one hell of a snark.

Over the years one thing he had discovered helped her focus and concentration was doing puzzles. (Forget Sudoku.) Crossword puzzles—either big (BIG) print or someone would sit with her and write in the letters she dictated. Word searches. We—thanks to Charlie and some of her friends—stumbled over "'find the hidden object" puzzles online, and Victoria _loved_ them. But her favorite, ever since she was a little girl, was jigsaws puzzles.

When we merged households we discovered that as big as Mallard Manor was it wasn't a Tardis with infinite storage capacity; something would have to give. That something was all three of us paring down possessions and donating them to charity. First to sort through was the tonnage in the attic, declared by Ducky to be, "Seventy-five per cent utter crap." At my startled look ("crap" just seemed so _uncouth _from him), he said, "Go upstairs and see for yourself, it's the appropriate term for the situation."

The attic isn't some crawlspace with a pull down ladder, something suitable only for Snow White's roommates. It's a finished room that spans the length and breadth of the house, with windows on all four walls. And it looked like Martha Stewart's worst nightmare. (When "Hoarders" appeared on TV a couple of years later, it inspired another round of cleaning and culling. Some of those shows were only a few steps away from what had been upstairs.) One entire corner—corner being 8'x8'—was nothing but neatly stacked jigsaw puzzles. Everything from landscapes to Santa Claus shilling Coke products, kittens playing with yarn to double-sided puzzles, 3D puzzles, a solid red puzzle, a puzzle made from a photograph of Ducky as a toddler—it was mind-boggling. Mother got into the swing of things and said they should all go—she had "a sufficiency" in her room. (She had _four dozen_ in her room.) (The puzzle of Ducky, we kept.) Ducky made a suggestion and we toyed with the notion of taking them to the store, selling them and donating the money to charity—but saner minds prevailed. ("Adding on a second floor?" Lily asked. She, Ev and Charlie had spent the weekend helping us shovel out the Agean stable upstairs. The puzzles went in the donate pile.)

But even though it took two trips for Hermitage Animal Sanctuary to collect everything we got rid of, we still had a lot of stuff in the house—including stacks and stacks of jigsaw puzzles. Victoria might spend hours on the computer playing hidden object games but just like I have a Kindle and enjoy it immensely, she will never give up her old fashioned jigsaw puzzles and I will never give up my books. I prefer life when it isn't either/or; so does she. I'm lucky that way—I _like_ my mother-in-law.

While we did baby-proof the house to a certain degree (plugs, poisons, pointy things got capped, locked or put up high; expensive rugs and objets d'art went upstairs to the attic), many things remained. You can't wrap the world in cotton or a child never learns to respect the word "no" and understand boundaries. (We weren't going to go as far as Jeff Foxworthy's comment about his dad's thought on child-proofing the house, "Let him pull the TV over on himself a few times, he'll learn!") Since kids have the attention span of a gnat, rules had to be repeated and reinforced, but we generally fared pretty well. "Unless you have permission, don't mess with things that don't belong to you" is a big, big rule in our house.

Enter schoolmates to the scene.

Different parents have different methods of rearing children. We tend toward mildly authoritative with a good bit of democracy. I thought we were on the casual, permissive side of the scale until Lexi went to school and I started hearing tales of children staying up until midnight (not sneaking books as Lexi did—_staying up_ as in _with permission and knowledge_ to play video games that, in my opinion, should be banned if you have anyone under 25 in the house or watching _Halloween_ and _Nightmare on Elm Street_), friends having screaming fits over what was being served for dinner and parents giving in and ordering pizza (if you don't like what I'm serving, you have two other choices: make your own or starve)—in general, kids with a total lack of discipline and boundaries. The inmates were clearly running the asylums.

We didn't run into too many problems when she brought home a friend for dinner or a sleepover. Most kids have something in their primal, lizard brain that says what flies at home is not necessarily what flies at Missy's house or with Jack's parents or Lexi's grandmother and they moderate their behavior. Most kids.

Lindsay Gallagher had been a tough one. Lexi was temporarily in her sway, emulating her "if you scream and yell and pitch a fit in public, your parents will give you anything" school of thought. That got squashed, fast and hard. Acting out because she was the tug-o-war prize in an ugly divorce, Lindsay was a terror. When Lexi first asked if she could have Lindsay sleep over for the weekend, my instinct was to say, "Hell, _no_." I said yes. We spent Friday night and most of Saturday setting and reinforcing a hundred times over what the rules and boundaries of the Mallard household are. She chafed. She balked. She squawked. But by Sunday the generally happy tenor of our home won her over—a bit, anyway. She was quiet and subdued when her mother picked her up—but no longer sullen and bratty. A step up.

From pre-school to the summer before second grade, Lindsay was a frequent visitor. We thought (but never said) that she looked at our house as a refuge; when her mother won custody and was allowed to move out of state, they stopped by so Lindsay could leave her guinea pig with us. While Ducky and Lexi got Fred settled in his new home, Lindsay and I watched from a couple of feet away. She sighed, a sad, grown-up sound. "I wish I could live here forever." Refuge.

_I wish so, too_, I wanted to say. But it wouldn't have helped. Instead, I said, "That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said. Thank you, Lindsay." I leaned over. "Mrs. Mallard has a good-bye present for you, too." (She had already received several—Ducky had burned a set of CDs of Gilbert and Sullivan tunes (Lindsay had never heard of G&S before our house and had been a quick convert), Lexi had carefully decorated an address book and matching journal (with our address and phone numbers the lone entry) and I had made a tin of her favorite "kitchen sink" cookies.)

She looked up at me in pleased shock. "Really?"

"Really."

Fred happily housed in the hutch next to Harvey, the rabbit, we headed back for the house. Mother and Suzy were in the living room, waiting, a box sitting on the couch next to Mother. "I've never been to North Carolina," she said, giving Lindsay a shaky hug.

"Maybe you could all come and visit?" Lindsay suggested timidly.

Mother beamed at her. "That would be _lovely_!" Ducky and I exchanged a glance; we don't plan too far in advance with Mother. To put it gently, she is "not young." (Quoting Maggie Smith in _The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, _"I don't even buy green bananas!") She held up the unicorn and rainbow bedecked box, about the size of three extra-large pizza boxes stacked together. "This is for you. Happy birthday, dear!"

Lindsay smiled gamely—she understands Mother's slip-ups. "Thank you." She sat down next to Victoria and started tearing off the paper.

Mother had bought the gift on a secret trip with Suzy, so we were all in the dark. When the paper was pulled away, I wanted to clamp my hand over my mouth. A jigsaw puzzle. A 10,000 piece jigsaw puzzle of hundreds of cats playing in a field of wildflowers.

Lindsay looked up at her uncertainly (a frequent emotion around Mother) and Victoria reached up a trembling hand to take her chin in her fingertips. "_You are… a __good__ girl_," she said very quietly.

_After a few months of dinners and overnight visits, Lindsay had adapted well to our family structure. But one weekend started off badly from the moment her father dropped her off. She almost catapulted from the car and was upstairs in Lexi's room in a nanosecond. Every conversation was fraught with exclamation points. "No!" "I don't care!" "Yes!" "Go away!" She wouldn't tell us what the problem was, she wouldn't tell Lexi—we finally had to stand firm on the "if you can't be happy, be civil" rule and she lowered the volume… but something was simmering just below the surface._

_It boiled over Saturday morning. She was found repeatedly breaking one of the big rules of the house: don't go poking in stuff that doesn't belong to you. She was reminded and scolded repeatedly for poking through our bedroom, Ducky's desk, the attic—I barely refrained from screaming, **What has gotten into you?** I knew what had gotten into her—two parents who didn't know how to do the job they had taken on and she was caught in the crossfire. So I carefully chose my words and gently but firmly laid down the law. Until Saturday morning._

_Something—who knows what—set her off and she became a whirling dervish. She screamed and howled in a temper tantrum that should have had the cops on our doorstep. She threw things, she hit back when we reached out, she ran through the house at Mach 5—**straight into Victoria's room.**_

_**Straight into the closet.**_

**Straight into the pile of jigsaw puzzles.**

_The things she had thrown had, fortunately, not been breakable. Pillows. Books. Magazines. Coats off the coat rack._

_Jigsaw puzzles._

_Before we could get to her (dodging the flying boxes was difficult) she had thrown over a half dozen boxes overhead. Pieces scattered to the four corners of the room, landing on and under everything. Foot and Pye took great interest, batting the pieces like tennis balls into the hall and across the way, down the basement steps, into the kitchen... God—by the time this was through, there would be puzzle pieces through all three floors of the house. Lexi huddled next to me, arms around my waist and face buried in my stomach, crying and trembling, while her father tried to get close enough to stop the storm._

_Victoria, who had been on a morning walk with Suzy, entered her room with a stunned look. "Stop that!" she shrieked. "Stop that—**right now**!" Her voice can carry when she wants it to. Lindsay dropped the puzzle she was holding and Ducky swooped in to grab her by the arms. She started to struggle and Victoria carefully picked her way through the mess to stand in front of her, a scant five feet of pissed off old lady. "You naughty, wicked girl!"_

_To my shock, Lindsay burst into tears. So did Victoria._

_A few hours later, when things were calmer, we sat down at the kitchen table. Lindsay still couldn't share what was hurting so much, but she was truly, honestly repentant. Just as we did with Lexi, we let her figure in her own punishment. The first thing she said was, "Please… let me come back?"_

"_Lindsay… there are house rules," I said gently._

"_I know! And I'm sorry! Really, really, I'm sorry! I didn't—I just—" She started to cry again._

"_We **will** give you another chance," Ducky said. "But this **cannot** happen again. Or anything **like** this. You know that if something is bothering you, Mrs. Mallard and I will **always** have the time to listen. But you have to use words when you're upset. Or if you don't have the words, you can draw how you feel. Or hit Lexi's karate kick stand in the basement. But you may **not** hurt people. And you may **not** destroy things. Is that understood?"_

_She nodded. "I promise. I'm sorry." She gulped her tears back. "Lexi—Lexi said the rule is, 'let the punishment fit the crime.'"_

"_Yes…" I said slowly, prompting._

"_Um… I have to fix up everything I messed up. And…" She looked from one of us to the other. "And… I have to find all the puzzle pieces. **All** of them. And put them in the right boxes. Even if that means having to **do** all the puzzles to get it right. And…" Her eyes filled with tears again. "I have to apologize to Grandma Mallard. I **want** to apologize." The tears spilled over again. "I'm **sorry**!"_

_It was a helluva lot of puzzle pieces. It took almost two years, until just after last Christmas, to complete the task (as best we could). After the first couple of weeks, it stopped being a punishment and started being an enjoyment. We all pitched in with the sorting and sifting and solving—and Lindsay did a lot of growing up over that time. Too bad her parents didn't._

Now she looked down at the puzzle with a funny smile on her face. "Thank you."

"Whenever I do a picture puzzle… I shall always think of you," Victoria said.

Lindsay's look became an embarrassed one. "Even the 3D puzzle of Buckingham Palace?" Two years of hunting and we were _still_ missing seven pieces.

Victoria held her arms up for another hug. "_Especially_ that one."


	44. In This World There Are No Answers

May, 2014

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><p><strong>In This World There Are No Answers Only Cross References<strong>

The general rule of thumb in our household is, "if you can ask the question, you deserve to get an answer." (A friend of ours with a rather, uh, colorful background adds, "Are you sure you want to hear it?") It's the way I grew up (for the most part) and Ducky—well, if he figured the adults would decline to answer, he just went to the library or a bookstore and hunted down the answer on his own. Both of us had decided, without the thought being put into actual words, that any child he or I had would not be fobbed off with "go ask your mother/father." He's a doctor, I'm a bookseller; we both deal in facts. Answering a kid's questions would be a breeze.

Enter Alexandra Caitlin Mallard.

Ignoring the fact that a three-year-old can "why?" you into a coma, if Lexi asked a question, she got an answer. If we didn't know the answer, we'd look it up. (Okay—if _I_ didn't know the answer, _I_ would look it up. The list of things Ducky knows off the top of his head is mind-boggling.) The ask/answer credo did not exclude the big, scary questions that make so many parents turn pale and stammer half-assed answers or mutter, "Go ask your mother/father" (or, worse, "You're too young to ask things like that!")—namely, s-e-x questions. The questions started in preschool, when one of the teachers got married and four months later was running around in maternity tops. Simple questions, simple—and age-appropriate—answers. (I had plenty of practice with my nieces and nephews.)

By kindergarten, most of the questions had been asked and answered. The most difficult was about gene pools. "Auntie Barb has green eyes. Uncow Ray has hazow eyes… How come Sharon has _brown_ eyes and Kevin has _bwoo_ eyes—"

It was the one and only time I said, "ask your father." But I had a better intro; I said, "Kid, when I took biology and studied Mendel, dinosaurs still roamed the earth. I don't remember squat. Let's go ask your father." For the next two hours I was able to fix dinner without disruption as they surfed the web and then ran out to Barnes & Noble and came back with some neat books on genetics. (After she was asleep, I snuck into her room and borrowed the books. It was embarrassing how much I had forgotten. Or, more likely, how little I ever learned.)

Right before the end of the school year, she was allowed to go to a slumber party—her first—and came home Saturday night in a very thoughtful mood. She sat at the kitchen table, idly coloring in a coloring book while Charlie crammed for the last exam of her—ulp!—senior year. "Mommy—what does 'knocked up' mean?"

Charlie's pen clattered to the table and she stifled a snorted giggle.

I started to answer, then caught myself, remembering a very old joke. ("Dad, where did I come from?" After the stammered answer about the birds and the bees, the kid says, "Oh. Fred's from Ohio, I was just wondering.") "Well, there are different meanings," I said, thinking of the British "knocked up" as in going to someone's house and knocking on the door. Another snort from Imp. "Could you use it in a sentence?"

"Mm-hmm. Carly's sister Jenna and her friend Maya played beauty shop and did our hair and our nails and stuff and they were talking about their best friend Kelsey and they said she's knocked up again—"

I tried not to wince. Or groan. "Um—okay…" I gave the stew another stir and set the spoon on the rest and joined the girls at the table. Charlie was ignoring her calculus book and was watching me with great interest. Brat. "You remember when we were at the mall, we passed a clothing store for pregnant women—it was called 'Great Expectations' and I explained that if a woman was 'expecting' it was another way of saying she's pregnant?" Lexi nodded. "Well… 'knocked up' is another way of saying 'pregnant.' But, generally, it's rather rude. Sometimes friends can say it and it's joking—"

Her eyes lit up. "Oh! Like the boys at the mall who were calling each other n—"

"Yes, yes!" I said hurriedly. Not a scene I wanted to revisit, thank you.

"But how come 'knocked up' means 'pregnant?'"

Of those two choices, yes, I'll take rude euphemisms for pregnancy over racial slurs for $500, Alex. I combed through what I could remember from my various etymology books. "Well, 'knock' was a slang phrase meaning 'sex.' A couple of hundred years ago, it was a slang phrase. Not any more, really, but 'knock' just slid into 'knocked up' meaning pregnant, because pregnancy is often—" (as Miss Kelsey will attest) "—a result of sex."

"Oh. Okay." Phew. It looked like the answer satisfied her, but she still looked like she was chewing on something. "Mommy…?"

"Mmh?"

"I want to ask you something."

"Fire away."

More mental gnawing. "But… it might make you uncomfortable."

Charlie turned and stared at me openly. No way in hell was she getting back to calculus.

I swallowed hard. Yeah; that's _just_ the phrase a parent wants to hear. "Well…" I managed. "If you have a question, you ask it. If it makes me uncomfortable—that's _my_ problem."

"Oh. Okay." She brightened. "Well—I know that if a man and a woman are in love and want to have a baby, they have sex."

We hadn't tackled surrogacy, in vitro fertilization and other extensions. So, for the basic concept… "Yep."

"Well… what if they want to have _sex_… but they don't want to have a _baby_?"

"That—is an _excellent_ question."

She looked tickled pink. "It is? It is?"

"Yes. And one far too few teenagers ask." (Another rude noise from Charlie, and a muttered, "Kelsey sure didn't.")

I held forth for several minutes—with occasional input from Charlie—about facts and fallacies about contraception, scaled down a little. Ducky walked into the kitchen, caught the drift of the conversation, and quietly left again. Lexi's questions, he'll answer; having Charlie in the audience probably spooked him. (Chicken.)

Much later, while we were all around the coffee table, I explained what had brought the topic up in the first place. There was plenty of head-shaking to go around, especially since Carly's older sister is Charlie's age. Pregnant "again" at 16? Yikes. But there were also some laughs, especially over my "Uncomfortable?" reaction.

"You handled it with grace, common sense and knowledge, my dear." Ducky kissed my temple.

"I had to. You turned tail and ran for the hills."

'You had everything under control, anything I added would have been superfluous."

"Coward," I muttered.

"Perceptive," he said in a matching tone.

Ev reached around Lily and snagged a magazine from the end table and started flipping pages. "I think… no… ah, there it is." She folded back the cover of _The New Yorker_ and handed it over. "Should we put this on a t-shirt?"

I looked over Ducky's shoulder and laughed. The top half of the page was a cartoon by an artist I didn't recognize right off the bat. It showed a family in the front yard—mom, dad, a passel of kids, with mom and dad waving brooms and bats to ward off the incoming flight: a stork with a baby dangling from its' beak.

The five of us (Mother having already retired) chuckled over the cartoon and Lexi scrambled over from her side of the table. "Lemmesee, lemmesee!" She looked at the cartoon and frowned. "I don't get it."

"They don't want the stork to bring another baby," Lily explained.

Lexi frowned more deeply and shrugged. "I still don't get it."

It suddenly dawned on me that Lexi had always gotten the straight scoop from us: she had never run into the "stork bringing a baby" myth. It hit Ducky about the same time, and we both burst into laughter. Ev and Lily caught on and joined in the I-can't-catch-my-breath-to-answer-you feeding on each other laughter.

Lexi looked at us, first baffled, then irritated. It just made us laugh all the more. Finally she folded her arms and flumped onto the sofa next to Charlie. "That's what I _hate_ about this family! Nobody tells you _anything_!"

* * *

><p>AN As so often, right out of real life. The only thing missing was my daughter's declaration that she was not the result of *that*—she popped onto the planet parthenogenetically…


	45. Caution: I Brake For Bookstores

July 21, 2012

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><p><strong>Caution: I Brake For Bookstores<strong>

It was a yearly ritual. At some point during the year—for the past few, on or around Ducky's birthday—we would do a mass reading of "The Phantom Tollbooth" at the store. One, it's one of my all-time favorite books, and owning your own store means doing what you want (within the law of the land and commonsense business practices). I like "The Phantom Tollbooth," therefore we read it over a random four-day weekend of my choosing. Since parents frequently have holiday plans over the normal four-day weekends, I choose anonymous days (well, anonymous to anyone outside our immediate family).

The second reason is because I own the world. Well, the map, anyway. About a month after I took over Papyrus, I stumbled over a yard sale with the find of the century: a ten-by-ten hunk of carpet with the map from the book dyed into the fibers. Not painted—_dyed_, all the way to the base. Someone had planned for the kids to walk on it for decades—and, here it was, in a yard sale. While my heart was breaking for the person who had put so much time and effort into such a beautiful piece of work, the greedy, selfish part was shoving a twenty in the seller's hand and running for the car.

Every year we would put out the carpet for the back-to-back reading (and every week we'd haul it out for Story time). I had lost track of how many offers I had had to buy it; nobody stood a chance.

Lexi had heard the story a hundred times since she was born. On the marathons, we read it back-to-back, nonstop, open to close, trading off readers every hour or so. Ducky always joins in, and we frequently get some of the NCIS crew to join in—even Tony DiNozzo, who is not the most comfortable around kids (but is a _very_ expressive reader). Lexi can probably recite it in her sleep, but she was looking forward to our marathon in September as much as her daddy and I were.

Saturday morning, July 21, 2012. Just another Saturday morning. Ducky had pulled weekend duty and I had scored a huge hit at an estate sale the week before and had tons of books to sort, grade and price; rather than call in a weekend duty nurse for Mother, I just packed her in the front seat, put Lexi in her booster and schlepped us all to the store bright and early. Lexi made a beeline for the kids' section (like her mother, she's a bit of a slob in other areas but loves to organize books); Mother made a beeline for Geoff (who made a big fuss over not seeing her for the past few months); I made a beeline for the storeroom, with the boxes and boxes of books waiting for me.

We bounce radio stations a lot at the store, depending on the mood of who's listening. Classic rock, political talk shows (not so much, lately; even the ones I agree with are starting to grate), classical—just about anything but rap and hip-hip. I'm too old for that stuff. Lots of swing (Ducky will dance with me), lots of folk music, and lots of NPR.

I had been in mourning for the past month; one of my favorite shows, "Car Talk," was going off the air at the end of summer. Supposedly they were getting too old at 70 (or so one of the brothers accused the other). Piffle. Ducky is still the Chief Medical Examiner at NCIS at 70—come on, Tom and Ray, pull up your big boy boxers and keep broadcasting! Harumph.

I listened with half an ear while I sorted books as one show faded into the next. News at the top of the hour; occasional reminders to support public radio with a donation or donating a used car. "Car Talk" (learning bits and pieces of mechanical know-how around my guffaws) aired at ten then another favorite, a silly (though often even more educational) game show, "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me" followed at eleven. ("Prairie Home Companion" would hit at six—just in time for whatever dinner I could con Ducky into picking up and bringing to the store.)

"—a game where we reward someone for being special by asking them about something ordinary. Fifty years ago, a young architect decided to procrastinate by writing a children's book. He had his roommate, a young cartoonist named Jules Feiffer, do the pictures."

My head whipped around. What? I quickly racked my brain, thinking of things Feiffer had illustrated. Jeez; the list was pretty long. Fifty years ago? No, it couldn't—

"'The Phantom Tollbooth' has been hailed as a classic—"

My shriek was louder than the applause. The crash of my rolling chair colliding with the freestanding metal rack and sending all the office supplies flying was even louder. At least four of my employees came plowing into the room, clamoring.

"Quiet, quiet!" I yelped. "_I can't hear the show_!"

Rolling their eyes and shaking their heads, they abandoned me.

"Well, it's a book about a little boy, about ten years old, who hates school, doesn't really understand why he has to learn anything and doesn't believe anything adults tell him and doesn't understand anything about them and they don't understand anything about him… He comes home from school one day, finds someone has left a big package, which is a toll booth, assembles it, goes through the toll booth and ends up in a kind of crazy land where all rhyme and reason has been banished. And he has a series of adventures with a lot of word play, a lot of crazy things happening and a lot of fun."

I ignored the disaster around me and hung on every word.

"What was the reaction to the book when it came out?"

"It was kind of unanimous, it was not a children's book. The vocabulary was too difficult for kids. The situations and the things I talked about were way out of their understanding. The word play and the punning, they would never get. And to top it off, they told me that fantasy was bad for children because it disoriented them."

From the front of the store I heard a chorus of, "Oh, puh-_leeze_." They were clearly listening to the same station.

Peter Sagal, the host, piped up, "Speaking as a child who liked fantasy _that_ was the _point_." That got applause from the staff (and the audience).

We listened for the next ten minutes or so, laughing at comments about the book, applauding here and there, hearing, "Are you_ nuts_?" from Geoff when Mr. Juster chose wrong answers on the quiz—and had to be nudged to the right answers.

"It never occurred to me, for all those years I was reading and enjoying your book that some day I would end up desperately helping you cheat." (I just love Peter Sagal. Now I know why. We're linked through a children's book.)

It wasn't until the ending music for the "Not My Job" segment of the show cued up that the pain struggled to the surface and I realized I had sprained my ankle but good. Oh, man. Ducky is not going to let me live this down.

Later, when he brought in Chinese take out and re-taped my ankle, he confirmed my fears. "I will _never_ let your forget this one."

"You're just sore because you missed the show."

He patted my head. "WAMU has podcasts, my dear."

Why didn't I think of that earlier?

* * *

><p>AN I won't say that I almost had a car accident while driving and listening to today's re-broadcast of "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me." But I _did_ let out a screech that could be heard across traffic. I know this because the kids in the car two lanes over heard me over their (alleged) music and turned to stare. I sat in the parking lot at my friend's apartment complex untiil the show was over and all I could think was, "OMG, Sandy would flip out."

The quotes are straight from the NPR transcript. If you missed the show, I heartily recommend catching a podcast.

Oh, man, I can't wait to get my grubby paws on the annotated version! I'll even pay _retail_!


	46. I Love Cooking With Wine

December, 2012

**I Love Cooking With Wine. Sometimes I Even Put It In The Food.**

* * *

><p>One of the many reasons Ducky and I get along is because we both have an avid interest in food and the preparation thereof. It's a neyh-neyh point that I got his mother's closely-guarded gingerbread recipe and he spent a weekend re-creating a dessert he had never even had. (Great Aunt Deirdre swore she wrote down the recipe for Lemon Fluff. She was wrong. She literally died and took it with her. We had been trying for years—decades—to reverse engineer it, to no avail. Ducky appealed to my mother's better nature, camped in her kitchen <em>for an entire weekend <em>and they made batch after batch of the stuff until Mom yelled, "That's IT!" She threatened to nominate him for a Nobel Prize in chemistry.)

Lexi enjoys cooking—under very close supervision—too. Of course her favorite things to cook involve copious amounts of butter, sugar and chocolate—baking, rather than cooking—but she likes to help cook, too. It's a good way to sharpen math skills, and to show why you _must_ follow a cake recipe exactly, but you can play around with spaghetti sauce like crazy. Cooking is art; baking is science.

The Christmas Lexi turned four, she was our right hand girl for dinner. She helped make the sausage and mushroom dressing, beat the potatoes to a fare-thee-well and helped cut out slightly funny looking but quite tasty biscuits. While everything else was darn close to ready or done, Ducky decided she was old enough for a bird's eye view of how to make gravy.

"First you melt the butter… add in the flour… This is called a _roux_," he explained as he worked.

"Roo? Wike Kanga?"

"Well, it's pronounced the same, but this is spelled r-o-u-x. We're going to be adding a half a cup of white wine, could you get a half-cup _liquid_ measuring cup… thank you… can you find the _white pepper_ on the spice rack? Perfect!" They continued to work while I scooped veggies into their correct bowls, then heard the two words you never want to hear from a doctor, dentist or cook: "Oh, dear."

I turned around and clamped my lips together. The gravy was in the gravy boat; rather than "thickening" as it set, it had "clanked up." It was solid, the spoon standing straight up like a flagpole. Think cement. "That's, uh, thick gravy," I managed. (I had done the same thing over the years.)

Lexi reached out and whacked the spoon. It leaned over a bit, then twanged back to attention. She grinned in delight. "Coo-ow! Rigor mortis set in!"

* * *

><p>For those keeping reality check score: this happened the first time my sister made gravy. The youngest of my three elder brothers mouthed the fatal phrase. My sister burst into tears and fled the room, while Dad and Bill had a *discussion* in the back yard.<p>

Confession: this isn't the story I planned on posting. But I am so happy on Nyquil, what I wrote isn't making sense even to _me_. Maybe next month.

Have a wonderful holiday! When Miss Jayne posts the Jibbsfest Secret Santa exchange, I'll post the link on my bio page. For a Jibbs story, mine had darn little of it…


	47. Time Flies Like An Arrow

April, 2014

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><p><strong>Time Flies Like An Arrow<br>****(Fruit Flies Like A Banana)**

Lexi had been staring at the clock on the mantle with the concentration of a cat at a mouse hole (or Tony DiNozzo at a hoochie bar). I couldn't blame her—it was as ugly as a hangover after a 3-day drunk. You couldn't help but stare, like passing a 20-car pileup on the freeway. It had been a wedding gift to Ducky's grandparents and was the epitome of Victorian overblown muss and fuss, a masterpiece of craftsmanship, a stunning achievement of meal furbelows: lute and harp-toting cherubs, flowers, bows, curlicues and other crap. Mother had found it when we cleaned out the attic; ignoring (or not hearing) Ducky's muttered, "Dear heavens, I thought I donated that monstrosity to charity back in California!" she hauled it downstairs, badgered Gibbs' visiting-for-Christmas father into cleaning and tinkering with the clockworks until it ran perfectly, and put it where nobody could miss it—no matter how hard they tried.

"I don't get it."

"Get what, sweetie?" I stopped on the way to Ducky's desk, mail in hand.

She pointed o the clock. "It doesn't make sense."

"The cherubs? The decoration-versus-actual-clock-face ratio of 3 to one, minimum?"

"The _numbers_," she said, picking up on my 'please be more specific' hint.

She had learned to tell time on an analog clock before kindergarten, so I knew it wasn't big hand/little hand confusion. "How so?"

She pointed to the face. "Okay, that's _one_. That's _two_. I _guess_ that means five… but why is four I - V instead of I - I - I - I? It's stupid."

"Actually, it's smart," I countered, but not unkindly. "Hang on." I went to Ducky's desk, dropped the mail, grabbed a pen and paper and headed back to the couch. "C'm'ere." Lexi plopped onto the floor near the coffee table. "Okay. You're used to Arabic numerals." I wrote 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 on the paper.

"That doesn't look like Arabic."

"Well, no, not like the _letters_ Auntie Ziva showed you." (And, quite inadvertently, Lexi misspelled something and wrote a _very_ naughty word. Ziva laughed herself into hiccoughs.) "Trust me, they're called Arabic numerals." I wrote I, II, III, IV and V. "Those are Roman numerals."

She almost pounced on the paper. "But why isn't four I - I - I - I?" she asked almost triumphantly.

"Okay, let's do it your way." I wrote the numbers from 1 to 12, all using single digit I's. By the time I got to 8, she was frowning; by 12 she gave a small snort. "Okay. How would _you_ fit _that_—" I pointed to the IIIIIIIIIIII. "—there?" I pointed to the clock.

"Oh, you need little teeny eyes for reading little teeny print…" she sang. My kid loves filk songs; genes will out, clearly.

"Right. So-o-o-o-o-o…" I wrote I = 1, V = 5, X = 10, L = 50, C = 100, D = 500, M = 1000. "Up to three, you use single I's. To make 4, it's IV. Why do you think it's IV, not IIII?"

"It takes less room."

"True. But why is _I - V…_ _four_?"

I could almost hear the wheels grinding. "I dunno," she finally admitted.

"Okay." I wrote a 1 and a 5. "How would you make 4 out of that?"

"Cinchy," she said immediately. "Five minus—" Her eyes widened. "Oh! Five minus one! V minus I!"

"Exactly. So _nine_—"

"X minus I!" Still kneeling, she bounced up and down on her heels.

"Okay. If ten is X, eleven is XI… how would you write fourteen?"

She stopped in mid-bounce. She stole a glance at the clock, but it was no help.

"Okay—" I handed her the pen. "Write ten as a Roman numeral." She wrote a quick X. "Now, right next to the X, write a four in Roman numerals." She wrote the IV. "So you have X—ten—plus four—fourteen. If there's a smaller number between two bigger numbers, you subtract from the one on the right. Ten. Five… minus one." The light was slowly dawning. "What do you think _nineteen_ would be?" She wrote X, thought a moment, then added IX. "Excellent. Okay. Using this list—" I pointed to the I-V-X-L-C-D-M. "Write… thirty-five." She scrawled XXXV. "Good. Thirty-nine?" XXX… hesitation… IX. "Good. Forty?" XXX… she stopped. Chewing lightly on her bottom lip, she frowned. "It's like I, you don't want a long line of X's. If L is fifty…" She wrote an L. "How would you take away ten to make forty?" Light bulb! She wrote an X on the left side of the L. "Right! 100?" She wrote a C. "90?" X to the left of the C. "89?" L… XXX… IX. "Fabulous. Now let's try something really hard. Four hundred…ninety… nine."

Her eyes roamed over the list. "Four hundred is like four and forty. I can't write CCCC. Right?"

"Right."

She let out a little huff of air.

"Break it down. Do the hundred, then the tens, then the ones."

After a moment: "C… D?"

"Very good."

"Hey! CD! A DVD would be 500 – 5 – 500! Five hundred-four hundred-ninety-five!"

"Not exactly…"

"Four-ninety-nine…" She got back to task. "C… D… X - C - I - X!" she finished triumphantly. "This is _easy_!"

"Okay, Smarty pants. Write your birthday."

"September nine, twenty-oh-eight," she chanted, writing IX - X - MMVIII.

"Today's date,"

She looked at me, puzzled. "What _is_ today's date?"

I looked at my cell phone. "April fifth."

IV - V - MMXIV.

I grabbed the DVD of _Bell, Book and Candle_ from the other side of the coffee table. "Quick. What year was this released."

"MCMLVIII. Nineteen fifty-eight!"

"I was going to reorganize the living room anyway…" I laughed.

While I recategorized, Lexi alphabetized, announcing titles and translating dates. "_Star Trek 6_! 1991! _The Man Who Would Be King!_ 1975! _Metropolis_!" She stopped and glared. "Hey! How come it says MCMXXVII _and_ MMI?!"

"The silent movie came out in 1927. They released it a couple of times with soundtracks—1985 or 86, I think, and later again. Kind of like colorized movies."

She gave the box a sneer. "Feh." (I snorted.)

"They remastered it, and the soundtrack from 2001 is closest to the original soundtrack."

"It can't have a soundtrack. Silent movies are _silent_," she argued.

We continued to debate live music at silent movies versus soundtracks versus cramming pop music into a movie and calling it a soundtrack while we reorganized DVDs, videotapes, CDs and albums. Ducky had been taking care of some hush-hush errands (my birthday was coming up soon; hmmm…) and entered the house to a volley of "1943!" "MCMXLIII!"

"1897!" I threw out. (We had progressed to books, and I was putting away a battered paperback of _Dracula_.)

"M-D-C-C-C-X-C-V-I-I!" she bellowed triumphantly. At Ducky's astonished look, she said (rather smugly), "I am an _expert_ on Roman numerals."

"Oh, really?" he teased, agreeing. He winked at me. "All right. What is thirteen?"

She made a face. "Baby stuff. XIII."

"Ho, baby stuff?" He folded his arms mock-sternly. "Seven hundred and sixty three."

"DCCLXIII," she shot back. I grinned.

"Hmm. What is… 1,603—" She started to answer and he held up a hand. "—_minus_ 247?"

She made a tiny _grrr_ and wrote the numbers on the paper. With Tom Lehrer's _New Math_ in the back of my head I watched her work the problem and write 1366… then change it to 1356. "MCCCLVI."

"What's your birth date?"

"We already did that, Daddy."

"Ex_cuse_ me," he said. "What's the date for Christmas?"

"XII, XXV."

"Valentine's Day?"

"II, XIV."

"Easter?"

"That changes every year," she said patiently.

"Oh. So right. Ah—what was the year of Columbus's first voyage to North America?"

"Uh… MDCCLXXVI?" she said hopefully.

"That's 1776. American Revolution. You're off by close to three hundred years," he said with an easy grin.

"I said I was a Roman numeral expert," she said archly, turning back to her shelving with a flounce. "Not a history major!"

* * *

><p>For those keeping reality score, I am now stealing from my son-in-law. Hey; now he <em>knows<em> he's loved!


	48. Speak Softly and Wear a Loud Shirt

December, 2011

* * *

><p><strong>Speak Softly and Wear a Loud Shirt<strong>

Christmas decorating and gift wrapping tends to fall into a few categories. One: Martha Stewart. Everything is matchy-matchy to the point that you hear Pete Seeger singing "Little Boxes" in your head. A palette of two to four colors repeated on the tree, the decorations, the wrap and ribbons, the décor, the clothing, the _food_—a little can look nice in an ad or a display, too much is—well, too much. Two: Fibber McGee and Molly. Everything so higgledy-piggledy it looks like it fell out of the closet. A mishmash of decorations, odd bits of wrapping paper from last year (or last decade) (or more), some gifts even wrapped in desperation coverings—cut up marketing bags, funnies from the paper or even aluminum foil. Three: Yours, Mine and Ours. Particularly popular with large families, one person gets wrapping paper A, one person gets B, and so forth. Helpful when you have kids who haven't learned how their name is spelled, or they want to take packages around the room to everyone else and have no idea that _Jerome_ is their obnoxious 9 year old brother; they just know his packages are all in blue paper with snowmen.

We hit all three, to an extent. The tree is definitely Fibber McGee; we have decorations from decades ago, and just keep adding to the stash. The décor and table settings lean toward Martha. But while the gift wrap for everyone else is a mishegoss, anything from Santa is wrapped in Santa-themed paper. Only Santa gets to use Santa paper, and anyone coming to the house knows the rules. (Lexi had gravely informed Ducky that she knew Santa wasn't real. I wasn't there to consult, so he winged it, telling her the history of the Santa legend and that Santa is just the personification of people wanting to do nice things for one another… but don't tell the other kids, and _don't tell Auntie Abby_. Santa will leave presents every year. Period.)

Christmas in the Mallard household is an all-day affair. Charlie spends Christmas Eve with her maternal grandparents and family, then she and her moms come over to spend the night. It becomes a slumber party free-for-all, with the girls (including Lexi, after she turned two and clued in that she was missing a good time) camped out on the floor of Mother's room. I was worried that Mother would get up in the middle of the night and trip over one of the bodies; Ducky just snorted. "Do you think there's going to be any sleeping going on?" With all the girls in attendance, he pointed out that it there was too much of a ruckus, Santa wouldn't put in an appearance.

"We shall close the doors to the salon!" Mother announced with a decisive nod.

Thus began a family ritual. About 10:00 the French doors are closed, the all-night giggle session (frequently a representative (sometimes two) from NCIS in attendance) begins and Ducky and I set our alarm for 2:30 to sneak all the packages and stocking stuffers into place. Everyone is allowed to open and play with one present before breakfast (mostly to keep people occupied until the rest of the extended family arrives), we sit down to a ton of food, spend the early afternoon flinging paper and ribbon with great abandon while dinner cooks and we go from there.

"Love it!" I waved my copy of _The Dracula Tapes_ at Abby. Where she had scored a Warner edition paperback, with the tacky, cheesy Dracula hiding behind his cape, I don't know. I love the story; she heard me lamenting that I had loaned a copy of the original printing to a friend who accidentally left it at the airport. Alas, that cover was no longer in print; but there is something about it that warms the cockles of my kitsch-loving heart. Face it; it's hard to surprise a bookseller with a book.

I reached for the next gift and stopped. Santa paper—but not any paper I recognized. Yes—it read _To: Mommy Sandy From: Santa_ (we had to differentiate between multiple mothers in the room). Ducky must have snuck it into the pile behind my back. I looked across the crowd and pile of debris to find him holding a similar package and looking at me with a mildly confused look. We subtly pointed to each other in unison, and then shook our heads negatively in unison.

"Oh, another present from Santa!" Charlie was helping Lexi with her pile of goodies. Lexi didn't need help tearing off the paper, but she wasn't too hep on reading names. But the Santa paper she would recognize. It was the same paper wrapping the presents Ducky and I held.

A sweatshirt, bright turquoise with hot pink lettering: _**"BECAUSE I SAID SO!"**_ Ducky held his up; it was identical. Laughing, Charlie held up Lexi's matching shirt: _**"BUT WHY?"**_ "And it's a size six, she can wear it for quite a while."

"Always get kids stuff in big sizes," Gibbs said amiably from behind the vintage coffee grinder he was admiring. I cocked my head and gave him a suspicious look, which he returned as a most innocent smile.

"Well—it will save time," Ziva said, turning her giggle into a slight cough. Next to her, McGee and DiNozzo exchanged glances and busied themselves with unwrapping another gift each.

So many suspects…..


	49. I'm Not Nearly As Think As You Confused

_Dedicated to Jan & Mike,_  
><em>from all the kittens<em>  
><em>that have passed through their lives.<em>

April, 2010

* * *

><p><strong>I'm Not Nearly As Think As You Confused I Am!<strong>

"Cassandra? What should I do about the kitties?"

_Oh, great,_ I groaned inwardly. _What have Pye and Foot done now?_ I braced myself. "I don't know, Mother, what did they do?"

She looked baffled. "Why, nothing, dear. That is why I asked."

I bit back a sigh. "Okay. If they aren't doing anything… why do we need to do something about them?"

"It's just so terribly cold today."

True enough; spring had been like Robin Williams' comment, "weather by Sybil"—days of gloom and rain and an occasional snow flurry, followed by a gorgeous day breaking 60 degrees. The past couple of weeks had been pleasant, but today was a throwback to winter: just past noon, and if we broke 45 I'd be shocked. "And they have built-in fur coats," I laughed.

"But their mother is gone and they look _so_ cold," she fretted.

I stopped chopping the celery for the pot roast. "Mother," I said carefully, "_what kitties are you talking about?_"

"The ones in the back yard," she said, in the tone of 'what other kitties _could_ I be talking about, dunderhead?'

I pushed the chopping board away from the edge of the counter and tucked her free hand through my elbow. "Show me?"

They were huddled together for warmth, hidden inside the retaining wall of Mother's magnolia. Someone—probably feline (I'd like to think that the humans in residence would have said something) had made a nest of an old field jumpsuit of Ducky's (when too frayed to pass at work, they were stripped of insignias and Ducky took them home to use as coveralls for working on the car or the house), but I counted seven noses peeping out from the folds, mewing piteously. I grabbed my always at hand cell phone from my pocket and dialed the store. "Val? You said you have a friend who does animal rescue? Uh… what's her number?"

Moments later I was speaking with a charming young woman named Jan; within minutes we were old friends. She gave me all sorts of hints and instructions; the kittens were—barely—old enough to eat from a dish (good; I was not looking forward to bottle-feeding through the night) but don't use milk, get KMR. Check for fleas; here's a safe treatment for that young. Keep them contained (she had a bathtub she used as a kitten playpen; heating pads and blankets to keep them warm). Warm, warm, warm. Keep them WARM; with our slow-to-heat barracks of a house, the kitchen would be good until we had a warm, closed-off room. She was down with the seasonal galloping-never-get-overs but figured she could pick them up in three days, could I handle it that long?

I hesitated only as long as someone with a frequently senile, 102-year-old mother-in-law and an into everything, precocious one-and-a-half-year-old toddler would hesitate, said, "Of _course_ I can handle it" as quickly as only a kitten besotted cat nut would say and looked around for a way to get the kittens into the house.

Reinforcements—in the form of Evelyn, Lily and Charlie—had just arrived. With Ducky supervising (I relied on his medical background to say if it was okay to bring them in the house and to follow Jan's list), he and I carefully collected the kittens in Allie's wagon and took them in the house while Lily headed to Petsmart and Ev and Charlie rode herd on Mother and Allie. While we were working, Ducky broke the news that mama-cat would not be coming home; by the markings on a couple of kittens, he was pretty sure she was the cat he had seen by the side of the road on the way home from work last night. Animal control had been removing the body as he passed by.

"Beautiful animal, the attendant said she had clearly been someone's pet until recently—probably evicted when they discovered she was pregnant." His scowl said it all.

"Well… from what Jannie said, maybe that means they won't have –uh, problems," I said, remembering 'intestinal parasites' and going _euuuu_ in my head.

"I just wish we had found them before they became orphans." Ducky is a soft touch; we would have had a third cat and been hitting up our friends to adopt the babies.

We settled on the spare bathroom upstairs as the kitty dorm, even though it would mean helping Mother up and down the stairs to keep an eye on "her" kittens. Ducky tasked Mother with digging out her extra electric blanket from the dresser (that would keep her occupied for a while) and set about turning the bathroom into a kitten-safe place. Charlie helped Mother in the bedroom, while Ev played with Allie in the living room. I hit on a genius idea for keeping the babies corralled and warm in the kitchen—Ducky's feed the troops-sized turkey roaster was perfect; walls too high to climb over (I hoped), big enough to fit the whole family with room enough to move—but close enough that they could share body heat. I put the oven on to low preheat and set the roaster on the open door. Within minutes, the "I'm cold! I'm scared! I'm hungry!" mewling became "I'm warmer! I'm curious! I'm effing STARVING!" I promised them Auntie Lily was on the way back with goodies, Uncle Ducky was fixing up a lovely place for them and I really needed to get back to work on dinner, but I'd be happy to talk with them while I worked.

We had a lovely conversation. "Okay, the roast was already browned and in the crock pot, I've added the mushrooms and carrots, now I've added the celery. Since we have so many people for dinner, we're doing the potatoes separately. But I don't have to do those until later, so…" I dragged over a stool and sat near the stove, taking inventory of the family. "Okay, you keep disappearing in the crowd. You're Houdini," I told a pale beige baby with dark tips. Someone had Siamese in the background, I think. "You—" I collected a fluffy tuxedo from where he was climbing over his littermates to get to the top of the pan. "Are clearly a troublemaker, trying to take over the world. I dub thee Genghis Khan."

He opened his tiny mouth to protest the manhandling, showing even tinier teeth. "_Kha-a-a-an!_" he objected in a minute shriek.

"No _Star Trek_ movies for you, dude, you already out-act Shatner." I put him back in the pan. One all-black kitten was sitting straight up in the far corner, disdaining the warmth and camaraderie of his siblings. "Aren't you cold?" I asked (even though the air was quite toasty). He gave me a contemptuous look and turned back to his perusal of the roaster wall. "Well. With a pose like that, we're calling you Pharoah."

"_Kha-a-a-an!"_ wailed his brother.

"Don't worry, room for more than one ruler." I reached over and grabbed a celery top and tickled his nose. He obligingly swatted at it, and the sibling who got hit glared at him. "Oops. Sorry." The piercing blue eyes didn't waver. "Hmm. Ducky probably wouldn't want you named after him… let's call you Bones. Y'all got a Southern accent in there?"

"Ma-a-ah!"

"Close enough."

"Who are you talking…"

I glanced up. Mother stood in the doorway, watching me. I waved the celery top. "Just giving them names."

"Donald!"

"Mother, what—"

She spun in the doorway, almost losing her cane (and her balance). "_Donald!_ _**Donald!**_"

Ducky came pounding down the stairs faster than I have ever seen (or heard). "What? Mother, what's—"

I knew she wasn't hurt, so I had stayed by the pile of kittens when she yodeled. Mother grabbed his shirtfront, making him yelp in surprise. "Don't let her bake the kittens!" she pleaded tearfully.

It took a few minutes to clear up that I had been tickling the kitten with the celery, not seasoning him, that the roasting pan was not permanent—"And Aunt Sandy would no more make kittens for dinner than she would bake four-and-twenty blackbirds in a pie," Charlie concluded. "Now. Uncle Ducky has finished readying the bathroom and shall take the blanket up whilst I help you upstairs."

"What next?" I sighed. "Will she think I'm Mrs. Lovett?" I was joking. I think.

"Probably not," Ev said cheerily. Allie parked on her hip, she peered into the roasting pan. "But you could name that one Sweeny Todd. He kinda looks like Johnny Depp."

"Agreed. But I think I'll name him Jack Sparrow, if it's all the same to you."

The one silvery-gray striped kitten, the biggest of the bunch, smacked his tabby neighbor on the head. Ev and I immediately chimed: "Gibbs! And DiNozzo!"

(The silver kitten turned out to be the only girl of the litter. We renamed her Ziva.)

* * *

><p>Holy Guacamole! I see oodles of visitors (oh, and the place is such a mess...). Stop and stay a while. Chat a bit. Let me steal your life and turn it into a drabble. Uh, that is... would you like a macaroon? Sugar in your tea? Milk or lemon?<p> 


	50. I Never Get Lost Because

May, 2014

* * *

><p><strong>I Never Get Lost Because Everyone Tells Me Where To Go<strong>

Ducky has two children.

One is the light of his life, our daughter, Alexandra.

The other is his darling, his baby, the sweetheart he raised from the dead… his Morgan (named Morgan Le Fey).

After surviving his first winter on the east coast, he was panicked that the snow, slush and salt would destroy the car. But he has taken such meticulous care of this elegant vehicle that she's in better shape than most cars one-fifth her age. He is very, very particular about who drives this car. (Mother was still driving when they moved to Virginia, but she never had a chance. He didn't even let her drive it back in England.)

He loves hat car like no other inanimate object—but after we got married and we discovered we were going to be late in life parents, he saw the logic of a more practical car. I wasn't going to give up my van—it's too useful for the store, if nothing else. So we shopped around, found a three-year-old Saturn sedan with almost no mileage on it and sent up a thank you to the original owners of the house who had installed a three-car garage.

It never entered our heads to get rid of Morgan. One, Ducky had poured years of blood, sweat and tears into restoring her. Two, if you weren't hauling a lot of freight and you only had one passenger, she was very handy. Three, she's fun to drive.

Not that I get the chance very often. I do think of her first and always as Ducky's car… but there's something fun about tooling down the road, watching the college boys checking out the car, looking up to see what kind of hot babe is driving a car like that—and the look of horror on their faces as they realize I'm old enough to be their mother. (Yeah, I'm evil that way.)

And Lexi loves her daddy's car. So sometimes we'll do an afternoon errand or two with Morgan just so she gets some exercise and doesn't feel unloved.

"Running over to Costco for printer cartridges and paper!" I called to Suzi one afternoon. "Back in a flash!"

Lexi was already waiting in the car. "Can I get pizza at Costco?"

"May I."

"_May_ I get pizza at Costco?"

I checked my watch. "Yeah, I guess so." A midday junk food nosh sounded good to me, too. We backed out and headed the short distance to Fairfax, and even scored a decent parking spot (not easy at a quarter past one on a Saturday). "Okay, purse, phone—where are the keys?"

Lexi looked at me from the passenger seat. "What keys?"

"The _car_ keys," I said. I had literally just turned off the engine. Logically, they would be in my hand (no such luck). I always put keys in my pocket, but it's hard to put keys in a front pocket while you're sill sitting behind the wheel. Still… I wriggled around and dug my hand into the right front pocket; ring of house and car keys, but not the plastic fob of the Union Jack with one key on it. I dug through my black hole of a purse; no keys. Well, damn!

"Maybe they fell by the gear shift," Lexi suggested. She hopped out, turned around and squatted down for a snake's eye view. "Nope. Not by the gear shift or under my seat," she confirmed. She hurried around to my side and performed the same search, shaking her head slowly. "Nothing."

Ducky keeps a _very_ clean car (unlike someone he's married to). There was nowhere to _hide_ in the Morgan. "This is _stupid_!" I snapped. "It's not like I took them in the store and lost them! We're sitting in the freaking _parking lot_!"

"How can you have a yellow alert in spacedock?" Lexi quoted. (SyFy channel had been running the _Trek_ movies all week.) "Should we call Suzi and have her bring the spare?"

"There _is_ no spare," I said morosely. "That key? It's all she wrote."

"Well, let's go back to the beginning." (Sometimes it's really obnoxious when you hear your own words coming out of your kid's face.) "The car was running when we pulled into the parking spot."

I stopped myself from saying, 'Duh.' "Yes."

"You turned off the engine. Then what?"

"I checked that my phone was in the outside pocket and grabbed my purse."

"Where were the keys?"

"They were in my hand! Then they weren't! Poof!" She gave me a look I know she had seen on my side of the discussion before. "I know, it sounds insane and it feels insane from my side, but they just disappeared!"

"Are they in your purse?"

"I never put keys in my purse. Besides, I looked."

"Mommy… there's a lotta crap in your purse," she said patiently.

I couldn't very well scold her for telling the truth. Sighing, I got out of the car and carried my bag to the back to totally empty it. A paperback of _Zen Murder_. A battered checkbook. A ratty 4x6 spiral notebook and mini pencil. About two months' worth of receipts in varying stages of decay. A mushed and deformed Snickers that had melted and reformed at least three times. Assorted safety pins, three almost empty Tic Tac containers, a slider box of band aids, a half dozen bookmarkers from the library, a handful of sugar packets (a couple had been torn and I now had loose sugar at the bottom of the bag), a few coins that had fallen from my wallet, the wallet in question, a sheet of Burger King coupons that had expired months ago—but no keys. "I told you. I always put them in my pocket."

"Well, check your pocket," she said, sill very patiently.

"I already did." I jammed my hand in my left pocket; nothing. Right pocket; big lump of keys, which I ceremoniously removed and dropped on the purse. "See? No keys." She was only trying to help; I shouldn't have been so bitchy.

"Check your pocket."

"I just did! What do you want, the lint?"

"Check your other pocket."

"I _did_!"

"Check your _other_ other pocket."

As the bookstore marched down the block, we turned the entrance door to our first takeover into an emergency exit only door and put a sign outside, _Please Use Other Door._ As we took over the next storefront, some wag made the sign read _Please Use Other Other Door_ to see who noticed. Most people didn't. "What?" I stared at her.

She pointed. "Your knee is lumpy."

"What the—" I grabbed at my knee—and felt… a key. I dug my hand into my pocket again, and ran into solid nothing. Plus my hand was way up by my hip. "What the—" I said again, now thoroughly confused.

Lexi tugged at the side of the pants leg. "There's another pocket here."

"Omigod." I was wearing a pair of castoff scrub pants from the NCIS autopsy. I had never before noticed that there were more than two pockets—the top of the side pocket would have been at just the right angle for the key to fall in while I was sitting behind the wheel, my hand resting on my leg. Lexi slipped her hand into the side pocket (a really weird sensation and she will never make a good pickpocket without a lot of practice) and pulled out the key to the Morgan. "Thank you," I said weakly, then, "_Thank you_," more fervently.

"Maybe we shouldn't tell Daddy," she suggested and I looked at her in surprise.

"Yeah," I finally agreed. "He'd probably think I need a keeper."


	51. My Pets Aren't Spoiled

Summer, 2014

* * *

><p><strong>My Pets Aren't Spoiled<br>****(I'm Just Well-Trained)**

Here I stand, peeling carrots…

It took three months of trial and error, but Ducky either nailed it or came as close as humanly possible to cracking the code. In the meantime, we ate a _lot_ of carrot cake.

We knew Hippy Gypsy puts two pounds of carrots in each 4-layer cake. They boast the fact on the menu and in all their ads. Walnuts and pineapple were easy to nail, too. The balance of spices took three weekends to perfect. It was the texture that was so elusive. Remembering how I had used a baby food grinder to turn our dinner into baby food for Lexi, Ducky discovered the ultra-moist cake was from half of the carrots being almost pureed.

For three months we ate carrot cake every weekend. For three months, Harvey the rabbit got shredded carrots in his food bowl.

Ellis (the guinea pig Ducky had brought home with Harvey; I no longer let him go to Petsmart with Lexi in tow) tried one bite, decided we were trying to poison him, and went back to his steady diet of guinea pig chow. Harvey, on the other hand, is willing to eat almost anything. And it was funny as hell to watch. He'd drag a piece of carrot out of the bowl and go _nibblenibblenibble_ and it would slowly disappear in his mouth like a toddler sucking down spaghetti. I guess all kids play with their food, no matter what species.

Ducky would have normally just scraped the carrots, but at the beginning of this experiment Lexi had developed a "thing" about hairy food. The slightest tendril would send her fleeing, so carrots got peeled. Kiwi became a non-starter. Potatoes better not have even the tiniest sprout. Sure that she'd outgrow it, we just shrugged and peeled.

Over the weeks, the allure of kiwi-strawberry smoothies won out, and a blindfold test of a well-scrubbed carrot versus a peeled one settled the issue when she couldn't tell the difference. Patience: 1; Picky Eating: 0

After Ducky triumphed over recipe reverse engineering, I tried my hand at translating his scribbled notes, planning to bake one for the store as a blind taste test. I scrubbed the carrots and whacked off the ends for Harvey and the compost bin.

"Could you please peel the carrots?" I looked at Lexi in surprise. "For _Harvey_," she said quickly. "He liked the shredded carrots."

"He'll live." I handed her the bowl of veggies and followed her to the hutch in the back yard. I carried out the bucket of litter from the garage and supervised the cleanup. (Your pets, your chores.) Fresh cedar shavings in his nest area, water bottle refilled, fresh kibble and a bowl of veggies—

"I told you so." She—wisely—didn't sound smug. Harvey had sniffed the veggies and hopped to the other side of the hutch in disgust.

"Harvey! Dude!" I pulled out a carrot stub and waved it in front of his nose. "Good eats!"

Giving me a suspicious look, he sniffed the carrot… bit into the carrot… glared and threw his head back, pulling the carrot from my fingers and flinging it over his head. "_**SNEEF!**_"

Ever been cussed at by a rabbit?

I have.

So, here I stand, peeling carrots…

…for a rabbit…

* * *

><p>Her name was Allie and she was a black rabbit. Yes, I reduced all her carrots to ribbons. That's as close as I can get to her cussword…<p>

If you know the story "Pigs Is Pigs" you know how Ellis got his name.


	52. Caution: I Drive Like You Do

June, 2014

_Part II is dedicated to Susan, who, like Sandy (and Aunt Kitty!) also needs a key-per. ;-)_

* * *

><p><strong>Caution: I Drive Like You Do<strong>

My brother and I never went through the 'happy family memory' of having Mom or Dad teach us how to drive. The high school we both attended offered Driver Education and Practical Training. Just like in _Mr. Holland's Opus_, it was taught by a teacher needing extra cash over the summer—in Ray's case, Mr. Pornbie (the calculus and physics teacher—and, yes, the kids utterly destroyed his name behind his back); in mine, Mr. Cosgrove (foreign languages—I learned some good cuss words).

Ray taught Sharon and Allison; Barb taught Cory and Kevin (who almost put her in the happy house). When we were discussing the possibility of children, Ducky had half-jokingly said, "If I fathered a child now, I would be eighty or thereabouts when that child learned to drive, and I don't think those two demographics should be in a vehicle with a learner's permit between them." After Lexi was born, the topic of driving came up and he pointed out that at 82 he might not even _be_ driving, let alone able to teach Lexi. I didn't relish the task and looking at some of our extended family and their driving habits made us say, "Driving school" (Driver's Ed having dropped in both quality and availability over the years).

Charlie was another matter.

Before Charlie hit sixteen that February, Ev had decided Charlie would inherit her Saturn wagon and take it off to college. Charlie was honestly too busy to work on her driving during her last year in high school; she only got a learner's permit at 16 because there was no way she could pass the driving portion of the test. She got behind the wheel two or three times a month during her last semester, but once school was out she worked daily at practicing her skills. Since our neighborhood is quiet, Charlie got a lot of practice time circling the blocks and, as she grew more confident, driving us to the store or on other errands. Any licensed driver was fair game as the shotgun seat, so she got tips from all manner of driving, from Ducky (despite Mother's complaints, the best driver I know) all the way out to Ziva and Gibbs—once we were sure they wouldn't pass on their bad habits. I was looking forward to ten years hence, when Lexi would be _my_ chauffeur. But until then…

"_Please_ can Auntie Charlie drive me to the mall?" Lexi begged.

"Honey, she's sixteen, she still only has her learner's permit and an adult has to be in the car with her. Daddy isn't home, and I'm up to my elbows in getting dinner started. Maybe after dinner?"

"They close at _eight_!"

"Or tomorrow?"

"But my gift certificates expire _today_!"

Crap.

As incentives for whatever they're pushing in school at that moment—spelling improvement, math improvement, attendance—the teachers handed out envelopes with a surprise gift certificate: $5 at Crown Books or an individual pizza at Pizza Hut. It was luck of the draw what you got. Lexi would rather the book certificates; most of the kids preferred pizza. She and a few other bookworms had a nice trade system going on (one enterprising soul tried to do two for one—two of your book certificates for one of my pizzas; the principal squashed that quickly). It was a great idea.

But the darn things had a one-month life span. Lexi had three from the end of the school year, due to turn to dust _today_. $15 in book credit was nothing to sneeze at.

"Grandma could go with us," she suggested hopefully.

"It has to be a _licensed driver_," I reminded her. "Grandma doesn't have a license." (Merciful Zeus.)

"Suzy does," she said with a desperate note in her voice.

"Suzy isn't admitting to anything until she sees the charges," Suzy said with a laugh, bringing in Mother's tea tray. "What have I missed?"

"My book certificates expire _today_ and _Mommy_ can't drive me to the mall but _Auntie_ _Charlie_ said she will but _she_ has to have a grownup with her, so _can_ you? _Will_ you? Please? Be the grown up?"

"Too many places I could go on that. Well—" She shot me a look; I shrugged. "We'll have to take your grandmother along," she cautioned. "Taking care of her _is_ my job."

From her perch at the kitchen table, Charlie grinned. "I doubt Grandma will backseat drive."

As dents go, it wasn't _that_ bad.

_And_ nobody go hurt.

"It wasn't Charlie's fault," Suzy and Lexi said in chorus.

"Who hit you?" I managed to get out the words without too much of a gasp. There was a cave-in dent smack in the middle of the bumper and the back hatch. It was bad—but not bad enough that the airbags had deployed.

There was an uncomfortable silence. "The light pole," Lexi blurted.

"The _light pole_… hit the _car_…?" I said.

"No," Charlie sighed. "_I_ hit the light pole."

Ev will have a cow. So will Lily. "How?" I asked evenly.

Uncomfortable silence: the sequel.

"Um…" Lexi hemmed.

"Well…" Charlie hawed.

"It was… Victoria's fault," Suzy finally said, shoulders slumped. "I am so sorry."

I had a flash of Victoria grabbing the keys and joyriding to California and banished it. "How?" I asked again.

Charlie looked like she wanted to cry. "I've been working on my parallel parking and backing up. Next to Taylor Ridge Mall is Jefferson Medical Complex. After we bought the books—and a few other things," she added in a mutter, "We went next door," she continued in a louder voice. "It's empty after five, so the parking lot is perfect for practicing. I have a hard time balancing the clutch in reverse, I was backing down the row trying to see how far I could go without going crooked or stalling…" She bit her lip.

Suzy gave her shoulders a squeeze. "Victoria thought she saw Clark Gable. She yelled, 'Stop!'—"

"And I mashed the accelerator instead." Charlie bit her lip again and it quivered.

"Well." I put on my best Pollyanna smile and gave her a hug. "Your first accident is always the hardest! You got back on the horse and drove home. Nobody got hurt. I _know_ you're normally a very good driver. The car isn't damaged that badly. And since Mother was the cause of the accident—well, we'll just fix the car and everything will be shipshape and Bristol fashion." And we aren't letting Mercury Insurance in on the situation.

Victoria had hurried into the house under her own shaky steam and was sitting in the chair in her room, surrounded by the dogs and both cats on her lap. They had no intention of letting anyone close enough to badger her.

She looked up as I slipped into the room. "I'm sorry." Her voice was very small.

Over the years her mental acuity has been going downhill. Severely. But sometimes the cylinders are all firing in sequence and she's right on target. This appeared to be one of those times. "The girls explained what happened."

"I never meant to frighten Charlotte." She looked at me pleadingly.

"I know…" I climbed over her canine protection detail and perched on the arm of the chair. "Nobody got hurt. And the car can be repaired."

"I was _so certain_ I saw him…" She shook her head, confused. She looked up as I draped an arm around her frail shoulders. "I've lost so many names." She looked frightened.

Time for more Pollyanna. "Well, we'll just remember them _for_ you."

She managed a smile. "_You_ are… my favorite daughter-in-law."

I grinned. "I know."

She held up a shaky finger. "Han Solo said that."

I couldn't help but laugh. "You've been hanging around Tony DiNozzo too much."

She gasped. "That's an _Italian_ name!"

Back on course, Cap'n.

/ / / / / / / / / /

When Ev formally handed her beloved, pampered wagon to Charlie (she even had Charlie drive them to the body shop while Lily followed), she went out shopping for a 'new' car. I could say that proximity to the Hippy Gypsy influenced her choice, but she has always been big on the 3 Rs—Reuse, Renew, Recycle. After some careful shopping, she drove home with a 5-year-old Prius in sea foam green (and it went perfectly with her hair).

Summer brings more customers and occasionally short staff, so I frequently put in more hours than normal. (A business owner actually attending to business. Shock.) A couple of days after Ev bought the car, we had enough people on deck that she could take me for a quick spin—especially since we were swinging by Shari's and bringing back lunch as my thank you to people coming in for extra shifts and rearranging their personal lives.

The car is a Tardis. It looks dinky on the outside—well, moderately-sized outside. Inside it is roomy and comfy. "I got a ride from Baron Brian, he has a Prius, he said it's almost as comfortable as the gas-guzzling old Caddy he gave up," Ev said, smoothly maneuvering through noontime traffic. Baron Brian is in the SCA. He's 6'6" and garbs as Darth Vader at s-f conventions… without padding and lifts. Saying he's comfy is saying a lot.

It handled like a dream, and— "It's so quiet!" I marveled.

"Yeah, they've had some issues with visually handicapped people not being able to hear the car at the crosswalk. You have to really look out for pedestrians. This is definitely not like the trip to Gray Haven," she laughed

"Oy." I groaned at the memory. The catalytic converter went out halfway to the fantasy fair. A frantic call to her mechanic and a diagnosis over the phone that we would be okay for the trip—but it would sound like a bad garbage disposal eating a 12-place setting of flatware until it got replaced. For the rest of the trip we did the only sensible thing: we cranked up the radio.

I had been toying with the notion of expanding the store for a couple of years. I had run out of lateral room—I had slowly but surely bought every shop from 1st through New Jersey—and there wasn't a larger building available (well, not one I could afford); the only option was _up_. Ev has a genius for remodeling, so we turned the radio off and tossed around ideas from Shari's all the way back. We sat in the back parking lot going over floor plans, city permits, ADA restrictions (installing an elevator; oh, joy) and so forth until my phone chirped with the one word message: **FOOD?!** We quickly scrambled out of the car, hauling in boxes of goodies.

Everyone took turns manning the front counter so we could eat in the privacy of the break room (and the customers didn't filch any fries). Evelyn got a chance to catch up with a lot of the people she had worked with for so many years… and we all had a grand time until she caught sight of the clock. "Oayog! Oggaickuharlee!" she said, choking on her chiliburger.

"Come again?" I laughed.

"Gotta pick up Charlie!" The wagon was in the repair shop from Charlie's mishap the other week and due for pick up that afternoon. She stuffed a last gob of onion strings in her mouth and grabbed her purse, shoving her hand in her pocket—and stopped. "Huh." She shifted her purse to the other shoulder and dug into the left pocket. She went from mildly puzzled to mildly miffed. "Okay, I put the keys down somewhere…"

We tossed the break room, looking for the hard-to-miss translucent sparkly red plastic rose with only two keys on it. Nowhere.

"Maybe you dropped it while we were juggling boxes in?" I suggested. We retraced the path from the back door. Nothing.

"Maybe you looked them in the car," Alan suggested off-handedly. (He did it so often I had a dup key to his Honda in the cash register.)

With a faint groan, Ev hurried to the back door. I followed in her wake, ready to call AAA. "I hope I'm not that stupid," she muttered. She had ragged on Alan for being an absentminded professor without the degrees; he would return the favor with interest due.

"Ducky!" My one-and-only had arrived early and was casually walking around Ev's new car, eyeing it thoughtfully.

"Hullo, dear." He inclined his head toward the car. "Your new toy, I assume?" he said, glancing toward Ev. She nodded, a little glumly. Before she could say anything about her boo-boo, he cocked his head and asked, "Is there a reason you left the car running and unattended?" His tone was one of gentle disbelief.

"What?" Ev hustled over to the car. "Oh, my god! Oh, my _god_! How the—" She broke off and clapped a hand to her forehead. "We turned off the radio while we were talking. The engine is so quiet, I didn't realize it was sill running!" She opened he door, shut off the engine and pulled out the keys. "I'm an _idiot_!"

I could understand her feelings. I was still smarting over losing my keys… in my pocket. "And since it _was_ running, you didn't get the, 'hey, doofus, you left the keys in the ignition' ding," I finished. Ev just groaned again and leaned her forehead against the roof of the car.

"You're quite fortunate that nobody stole the vehicle," Ducky scolded lightly.

"In this neck of town? Yeah," I agreed. It had only been running, oh, an hour and a half. Yikes.

"Please don't tell Alan," she moaned. "He'll _never_ let me live it down."

"Oh, absolutely…" Ducky folded his arms on the top of the car and propped his chin on them, his baby blue eyes so angelic. "But what am I offered to keep this from your wife and daughter?"

He's been hanging around me too long.


	53. Follow That Car! I Can't Believe

May, 2013

* * *

><p><strong>Follow That Car! I Can't Believe I Just Said That.<br>****(Tom Conti as Alan McMann in **_**American Dreamer**_**)**

Things were quite different when I was a kid. Oh, they weren't perfect—but I can remember not locking the back door half the time, leaving my bike dropped on the lawn overnight and walking to and from Laurie Peadie's house after dark and nobody even considering coming to get me. Nowadays I have friends who have enough deadbolts and locks so that you'd think you were in New York, you run the risk of having your car stolen while you're driving (forget the bikes), and_ I_ don't like walking alone at night—no way in hell will I let my kid out of sight at that hour.

We were young, we were invincible. Before they coined the phrase BFF we _were_ best friends forever.

"If you think I'm going to let you say at a hotel, you think again, young lady!" Laurie is almost exactly ten days younger than I—nine days, twenty-two hours and nineteen minutes, if you're picky. We lived four blocks apart through grade school, went to the same schools, attended the same church, were in the same scout troops, our moms were in the PTA together, our older brothers even got along (thank god). "We have plenty of room, and _years_ to catch up on!"

"I'm taking Alexandra and running away!" Ducky whispered dramatically. I hit him with the dishtowel as he passed by. Lexi had tried running away only a month before. Not a joking matter in my book. But the house had been quickly repaired, and we could happily host a houseguest.

Not just any houseguest. My very best friend, someone I'd known since I was in preschool. Laurie and I studied together, had crushes on Ricky Nelson together, skated and rode bikes together, shared measles and chicken pox together, graduated high school together. I went off to Old Dominion; Laurie went off to Iowa.

She had gone steady with Doug Taylor for their junior and senior years in high school. In a world suddenly populated with hippies, yippies, flower children and counter-culturists wearing crazy, mod clothing, Laurie and Doug were almost Ma and Pa Ingalls in Maryland. Laurie ran for—and won—junior class VP under the slogan, 'Laurie Peadie, She's a Sweetie.' Doug ran her campaign. The week after graduation, they got married and moved to Townville, Iowa (Townville? Isn't that like 'city city?') to help his grandparents with their dairy farm. They went from helping to taking over, stayed there for the next 40 years, had 6 kids and had a nice, quiet life.

Neither of us went to our 25-year class reunion. We probably will skip our 50-year class reunion. But this was different—it wasn't a class reunion, it was a retirement party for Miss Jama.

Stephanie Jama is the reason I even _tried_ to be a teacher. She was the type of teacher who managed to be approachable and open while retaining control in her classroom. She badgered you into turning out your best work, and you griped about how hard she was but you loved her for it. She taught Hawthorne and Heinlein, Bronte and Bradbury, you could do book reports on darn near anything. I grew up in a family of readers; while we had a television and enjoyed watching television, my generation was at the edge of the video revolution. She saw where things were heading and she was determined to nip it in the bud.

She started—and ran—the drama department. She was the staff counselor for the poetry club. She taught creative writing and was staff editor of the yearly magazine. When I started getting into email and Facebook and crap like that, she was not only already online, she had the biggest list of names and links you could imagine. She had _thousands_ of former students on her list.

At 70 she was close to Ducky's age, and just as unlikely a person to retire. To the public, she said she'd been in the classroom—either as a teacher or a student—for quite long enough, she was going to travel, write the cookbooks and holiday reference books she'd toyed with over the years, and enjoy sleeping in. To a few of us, in private, she said she had decided to retire when they installed a metal detector in the school that year.

Things had _definitely_ changed.

Laurie and I had kept in touch over the years. She wasn't a technophobe, but she looked at technology as a tool for helping run the farm. When her grandkids tried to get her to join Facebook, saying she could get in touch with all her old friends, she just rolled her eyes and said, "That's why Hallmark makes Christmas cards." The most telling comment I got from her was a text message with a photo attachment Doug had taken. She had a rake in one hand, her cell phone in another, and her wader boots were calf deep in…uh, something. The caption read, "If you find yourself standing in a manure spreader and stopping to take a phone call…you just might be a farmer." (She loves Jeff Foxworthy.)

"Will you be able to drive from the airport?" I fussed. "You haven't been out here in _ages_. The roads have really built up, it's a rental—no, no, Ducky and I will pick you up—"

"Oh, for Pete's sake. I drive a flipping _tractor._ I have an old Ford that was built before World War II and drive on roads that have _no speed limits_. I will be _fine_."

She was late.

_Very_ late.

Her flight was delayed. An hour. Two hours. _The plane is busy dusting crops over the west valley,_ she texted after breakfast (her time). I wasn't sure if she was joking.

She finally got out of Clayton County and made her laborious way east. Instead of arriving in midday and missing traffic going to and coming from work, she touched down right as evening rush hour traffic started.

_Last message!_ she sent from the luggage carousel area. _I made it, my carry-on made it, but my checked bag is in Chicago—and it has my phone charger! They let me take the phone on the plane, but not the charger. Nuts. Everyone is nuts. I have one battery bar left!_ Seconds later, I got, _Yikes! Low battery flashing light!_

So I watched the clock _tick, tick, tick_ and knew I had no way to reach her.

We ate dinner and I put something aside for Laurie. She would be starving by the time she got to our place.

Lexi went to bed.

Mother went to bed.

Ducky and I stayed up and worried.

6:00. 6:30. 7:00. 7:30. 8:00. 8:30 Even my niece, Sharon, who has the worse sense of direction on the planet, would have been on our doorstep by then. 8:45. I was ready to call the cops. I was ready to call _Gibbs_. 8:47 and my cell phone rang: _BLOCKED NUMBER_. "Uh… hello?"

"Cassie, I am so sorry!"

"Where are you? Are you okay? Where are you calling from? Who is this blocked number? What's going on?!"

"I got lost," she said with an exasperated sigh. "It took me _forever_ to find a pay phone! Nobody has a pay phone out here!"

"They do in Iowa?" I asked, distracted.

"Of course! Well, I got out of the car, got over to the phone booth, and the silly thing is out of order! So I went back to the car, and I'd locked the doggone keys in the car! Can you imagne?"

"Yes," I said weakly. "But who—"

"Well, there I am, standing by this stupid car, mad as a nest full of hornets, and these young men drove up—"

"Laurie—_where are you_? We'll come and get you—"

There was a warbling noise of muffled conversation. "Good Hope Street? Off Anacostia Freeway?" she said. "There's a bar nearby, The Volstead Act?"

My jaw dropped. "Where?"

"I'm at the Amalco gas station. But—"

"We'll be right here," I said firmly. Better yet, I'll call Gibbs and ask him to send a platoon of agents.

"Nonsense!" she laughed. "I was saying, here I am, stuck outside the car, these nice young men drive up, they asked me what was going on, I told them what had happened—one of them had this strip of metal, he slid it in next to the window and _pop_! He had the door open in seconds!"

_I'll just bet he did._

"So handy!"

_Yeah, everyone runs around with a slimjim in their car._

"They're so sweet. They're in some sort of a club, they all have these jackets with their names on the back, they all have the same colored bandanas—and they gave me _perfect_ directions to Reston, not like the agent at the rental car counter. I'll be there in two shakes. I told them how worried you probably were—"

_Not like I am __**now**__._

"So this young man—" There was a pause, then I heard a faint, "Just call me Buddy," and some loud laughter. "Told me I could use his phone to call you. See you soon!"

I stared at the blank screen for a long moment. When do I tell her she just got saved by a carload of Crips or Bloods—before the reunion, or after?

That night, as I helped her settle in with a borrowed nightie and slippers, she gave me a rueful headshake. "We _do_ watch _Law and Order_ in Townville," she said drily. "I figured a dumb hick might get out of the situation okay. Besides—working on a farm for forty years gives you _some_ muscles. I coulda stomped all four if I had to!"

Well, okey-dokey, then.

* * *

><p>Been helping a friend move. I now know, <em>quite<em> personally, just how sharp the trochar Mary Hanlan used on Ducky really is... (I collect cookbooks. She collects vintage medical equipment. Different strokes, etc.)

A couple of months ago I participated in the annual Jibbs story Secret Santa. I suddenly realized I never posted the link on my bio page! So that will be added tonight. Like the others, it's not heavy Jibbs romance (it barely has any), and is definitely an odd sense of humor. Please. You know me well enough. -Aunt Kitty


	54. Who Stopped the Payment

Spring, 2012

* * *

><p><strong>Who Stopped the Payment On My Reality Check?<strong>

I stared at the Ziploc box, confused. Why the hell was a container of rice sitting on the counter? I picked it up and shook it. Okay—why are there _parts of a cell phone_ in a _box of rice_ on the counter?!

The back door opened and Ducky came in, toeing out of his muddy gardening shoes and leaving them outside the kitchen door. I help up the container with a silent, 'Hunh?'

He gave me a wry smile. "Mother was helping me with refurbishing the dratted goldfish pond this morning. She wanted to try skipping stones before it was filled with fish. She mistook my cell phone for a rock."

"Okay, but…" I shook the box gently. "_Por que arroz_?"

"Why rice?" Lexi chirped from the breakfast table.

"Well," Ducky said, slipping into loafers and padding over to the table, "In this case, rice is a desiccant. That means it is a drying agent. It removes moisture," he explained.

"Wike a sponge?"

"I hope so."

"Why didn't the sponge work?"

"Well… I didn't try a sponge. See, the sponge is—relatively speaking—a solid item. Like this book."

"But a sponge is smooshy."

"True, but it is still a solid shape. It's not a liquid, it's not a gas…" I gave a low whistle and tossed him a clean sponge from the sink. "Thank you, dear. Now. Let's pretend this salt shaker is my cell phone." He laid the cellar on its side and put the sponge on it. "So. The sponge will absorb water on the top. But what about the bottom?"

Lexi pursed her lips, looking just like Ducky tackling a weighty problem. She carefully picked up the salt shaker, wrapping the sponge around it.

"That's an idea… but what about those curves? The sponge won't get into the crevices." Lexi wrapped her hand around it and squeezed. "That would help… but it's going to take at _least_ a day for all the corners of the cell phone to dry out. I wouldn't want to sit and hold that _allllllll_ day… _alllllllllll_ night… for a couple of days. However…" He gently pulled the sponge from under her hand and held up the salt shaker. "See how the salt flows into all the bends and curves?"

You bet. Try washing that stupid SOB. It takes forever to completely dry, even in the dishwasher on hot dry cycle.

"The rice is like the salt. It can get into all the small areas of the cell phone, but it won't clump up like wet salt would. Once all the water has been absorbed, the rice will still be loose pieces that will shake out of the phone."

(We hope, anyway.)

"Now, what are other ways of drying things?"

"The cwothes dryer!"

"Yes. Now, why wouldn't I put my cell phone in the dryer?"

"It would make a godwawfo noise!"

"Alexandra!" He laughed through his disapproval, while I choked on my gulp of tea.

"That's what _Mommy_ said when she put my _tennies_ in the dryer!"

He gave me a mock glower. "Well, I can't argue the fact that shoes do cause _a dreadful noise_. And so would my cell phone. Plus, it's not meant to withstand great heat. What else can you think of?"

"The _sun_!"

The discussion continued. Lexi's sticking point was why not use salt—it was smaller than rice and would fit in all the little places on the phone, wouldn't it?

"Well, for one thing, the pieces of salt or sugar are _so_ tiny, they would get into the workings of the phone and never get out again. Also, with enough water, they would dissolve."

"We made wreaths and it didn't mewot!"

Ducky gave me a baffled look. "You missed arts and crafts last month," I teased him. "We made flower wreaths for the field trip to Raspberry Patch Faire. We dried flowers in silica."

"And the sawt didn't mewot!"

"It isn't salt, sweetie. Remember how only the teachers and helpers were allowed to put the flowers in the drying box?" She nodded enthusiastically. "That's because it looked a lot _like_ salt or sugar and we were worried someone might eat it by mistake."

"But why isn't the rice mushy?"

I missed the jump. "Sorry?"

"Why isn't the rice mushy?"

Ducky figured it out and held up a hand. "It depends on the ratio. If you have a certain amount of water, it will just make the salt wet. If you have more, it will start to dissolve—or, melt. But rice needs a lot more water."

"So the rice isn't mushy?"

"Okay. How do we make rice for dinner?" I asked.

"Inna pot!"

"Right." What the hell; I'll make rice pudding later on. I poured a cup of rice in the pot. "So. _One_ cup of rice." I poured in water. "_Two_ cups of water. That means we have twice as much water as we do rice." I brought the pan over to the table. "Is that what rice looks like when it's at the table?" She laughed and shook her head. "No. While the rice cooks, the grains of rice get _bigger_, and it ends up fluffy. Well… sort of sticky-fluffy. It's not _hard_, anyway. That's because the dry rice _absorbed_ the water."

Her eyes widened. "Won't the phone be mushy?"

"I dried off the phone, there's very little water left—but cell phones don't like _any_ water. So there's perhaps a quarter of a teaspoon of water, but three cups of rice."

"Three cups of rice would need _six_ cups of water to be mushy." I dug out a set of measuring spoons and dumped a quarter-teaspoon of water in a clear measuring cup. "We have a _long_ way to go for just one cup."

"But it fewo in the pond. It's _reawwy_ wet."

"I dried it off as much as I could before putting it in the rice," Ducky explained.

"Like when we go swimming at Grandma and Grandpa's. We wring out the towels before we throw them in the dryer. It takes less time and the dryer doesn't have to work as hard," I added.

"The less water you start off with, the faster it will dry." Lexi looked fascinated, but a little confused. "All right. Let's do an experiment. We'll take three tea towels, get them soaking wet and hang them to dry. We'll leave one thoroughly sopping, the second one…"

I went back to prepping dinner—and, thanks to the impromptu pot of rice, dessert.

They ended up spending a lot of time over the weekend working on experiments on water, absorption, drying (they even made a MacGyver dehydrator in a window, thanks to Alton Brown's website), starting rock candy in a sugar solution, and generally turning the house into Mr. Wizard's playhouse.

Which might explain why there is a soggy Cuddle Kitty shoved in the middle of a three-pound box of oatmeal that now resembles so much wholesome cement…


	55. If You're Skating On Thin Ice

May, 2012

* * *

><p><strong>If You're Skating On Thin Ice, You Might As Well Dance<strong>

Once a month, Mother attends—or, on rare occasion, hosts—the Corgi Kennel Club meeting. They don't really _do_ anything—no dog shows, no guest lecturers—it's mostly a social club, people showing up to share gossip and funny stories, bitch about husbands (or wives), to say, "Oh, how fattening! I shouldn't…" while sneaking a third éclair. It's a shoot the breeze type of club. But several times a year they do have fundraisers, usually to benefit a local animal shelter.

And Ducky and I do our part. I'll do a batch or three of some treats for bake sales, or donate a couple of boxes of books for the used book sale. One spring I took the sedan to the art supply store for crates of tempera paint and cheap brushes while Ducky used my van to make a trip to Home Depot for boxes of 2" clay pots and flats of bedding flowers for their Decorate Your Own Potted Flower for Mother's Day booth at the park. (It was a hit. They sold out in only three hours.)

One day I came home from the shop and found a stack of messages on the kitchen counter written in Suzy's neat printing. "What's this all about?"

She shrugged. "I have no idea. I just wrote what they said."

_Eloise Broward: Lionel train set, 5 boxes, 1930s, all original boxes, good condition. Also two boxes of train tracks, not original boxes, Keds sneakers boxes. Box of trees, buildings, etc., fair condition._

_Paul Tucker: Waterford crystal vase, no box, and $50 gift card to Flower Power._

_Helene Donner: Gift basket of bath goodies, lavender and rose scented._

_Marla MacIver: Smithsonian crystal growing kit, the really big one, never opened._

_Dee Fleidermaus: Stack of board games, Monopoly, Clue, Scrabble, Masterpiece and Chutes and Ladders, five or six others. Brand new. Won this at the mall last Christmas._

_Hope & Charity Freeman: Set of crystal glasses, 4 cordial glasses, 4 wine glasses, 4 gem tone colors. Boxed._

A dozen or more notes, all along the same line, like we were running a Secret Santa exchange. All interesting, and all baffling. "They didn't say anything else?"

She shook her head slowly. "Not that I ask—"

The phone cut her off. I answered with, "Mallard residence."

"Cassandra, dear. It's Joan McKirk." Our next-door neighbor. "I know I'm _technically_ not a member of the club, but I _do_ like to support them. My eldest granddaughter works at Gem 'n' I Jewelers and her employer is happy to donate a _lovely_ silver and amethyst set, a chain with a pendant, a dinner ring and earrings. She said she will drop the box by my house tonight."

"That's very nice," I said automatically. "But—not to be rude—what is this _for_?"

"The May Day Queen's Tea and Silent Auction," she said promptly.

I remembered seeing a blurb in the club newsletter a couple of times. I had set aside an autographed copy of Bradbury's _The Martian Chronicles_ for the auction and figured I'd make some goodies for the tea which—hmm, May was only a couple of weeks away. "Okay, but—uh—why are you calling _me_?"

"Oh, dear. I'm sorry. I was _sure_ Eloise said Victoria was the chairwoman. And since—well…"

Since Mother often lives in her own world, the other responsible adults pick up the slack. "Well, I'll call Eloise. You can drop off the jewelry, I'll make sure it gets where it belongs."

/ / / / /

"_We_ are hosting a tea party and auction?" Ducky looked aghast. "Dear Lord, _why_?"

"We were volunteered," I said grimly.

"Eyargh!" It was an inarticulate growl of frustration. "I swear, I _solemnly swear_, I will _duct tape her mouth shut_!"

"Better make it a _small_ piece." I gave him a forced-perky smile and fluttered my eyelashes.

He snorted. "I'll use the whole roll!"

Lexi pelted into the kitchen. "Oh, Mommy, _Mommy_! Come and see the dowh Mrs. Wevinger weft! It's _just_ wike 'the wast dowh' from _A Wittowh Princess_ and—"

I grabbed her and pulled her in front of me, facing her father. "Oh, you only need a piece about 'yea long.'" I put a finger at each end of her smile and gave him a mildly manic grin of my own.

Ducky tried to contain his frustration. "Alex_annnnnnn_dra… _Why_ did you volunteer us to host this—" He censored himself. "—_tea party_?!"

"Daddy…" she said plaintively. "The puppies will _die_! Nobody is 'dopting them! We _aw_ have to do our part!" How many times had we encouraged her to be civic-minded, to think for those less fortunate? A lot. "Bwess the beasts and chiwodren!" It was coming home to roost.

"Well, yes—"

"Aw creatures! Great _and_ smaw!"

_Hey, __**you**__ dragged her to church_, I mouthed. He winced faintly. "Surely we could…" He trailed off.

"It's _just_ _tea_!" she pleaded.

Yeah, with a flock of old biddies and geezers all over the back yard. Tea, he was fine with. The Kennel Club—not so much.

"Pweeeeease!" She was starting to cry. "The _puppies…!_ And the _kittens…!_"

He caved. "Next time," he said sternly, "Ask one of _us_ before volunteering our services."

"Grandma said it's okay." She was almost righteous in her stubbornness.

"And we love Grandma _very much_," I said carefully, "But sometimes Grandma gets confused. She may have thought you were asking about regular afternoon tea."

She tipped her head back. "I'm sorry…" Her brows scrunched together. "Am I in troubow?"

I sighed. "No…"

"I promise. I'w _onwy_ ask you and Daddy next time."

Daddy's look was plain: ain't gonna _be_ no next time.

/ / / / /

We had done a silent auction for Lexi's preschool the fall before and the Kennel Club used the same system—a closed website, attendance by invite only, so that people not at the tea (or, for the school, the spaghetti dinner) could participate. The website sent us automatic text messages for updated bids and, amazingly enough, technology worked in our favor.

The day of the tea was gorgeous. The weather was perfect; just warm enough to be pleasant, a tiny breeze in the air. We had a yard full of small tables with everything from gift certificates to a 'tumbling blocks' pattern quilt in shades of purple and blue. (I couldn't bid, so I made Ziva my proxy and told her to crush the competition—_I wanted that quilt._)

Abby—as she had for the preschool auction—had volunteered to run the site and update information. Ducky and I would get a ping, run to the item in the yard and change the bid. Charlie, Lily and Ev had volunteered to run around with pots of tea and trays of goodies and sugar, cream and lemon service.

Mother sat near her favorite tree, holding court with the rest of the old guard. The current president of the Kennel Club, Marsha Brighton, and her husband, Edward, a retired psych prof, were, technically, at the head of the group, but Mrs. Brighton had no problem deferring to Mother.

"Would anyone care for more tea? Darjeeling," Lily said, holding aloft a silver pot. She refilled several cups and Charlie took her turn.

"Lemon? Sugar? Cream?" She doctored cups accordingly and offered the tray to Dr. Brighton. His, "No, thank you," was overshadowed by his wife saying, "Yes, he takes two lumps of sugar." Charlie stopped, confused.

"No, thank you," and, "Yes, please, two lumps," collided again. Charlie laughed nervously.

Mrs. Brighton didn't look pissed, but she did have that ghost of an irritated look that could go with being married almost 50 years. "Edward! I _always_ put sugar in your tea!" she said with a small laugh.

He gave her a mildly amused look. "I know… and the first year, I reminded you I don't like sugar in my tea. After that, I just stopped stirring." He snagged a couple of cookies from the tray Ev was offering.

I thought of how we had been volunteered for this project and shook my head. The art of compromise is clearly the key to a successful marriage!

* * *

><p>As I wrote this, I found myself scratching my head and wondering if I had ever mentioned Mrs. McKirk's first name and hunting through all the Ducky &amp; Sandy stories for the information. (No, I hadn't. Her name is now Joan.)<p>

I thought it would be helpful if I combined all of the stories into one document and created a glossary or index. I managed step one... but the fact that it turned out to be _seven hundred and fifty-three pages long_ (not including this little snippet) has put step two into the far, distant future.

And for those of you who have messaged me to say, "I just discovered the Ducky and Sandy stories and got caught up all in one night"... my eyeballs are now glazed over in your honor.


	56. Natter and Grommish

September, 2011

* * *

><p><strong>Natter and Grommish<strong>

The mall is probably the last place I like to be. Bottom five, anyway. It's crowded, way too hot in winter, way too cold in summer, noisy, overpriced and frustrating. But other than that, it's a great place.

But sometimes I brave the doors. Because you have dozens of stores at your fingertips, you can get a variety of things. Very handy for Xmas shopping (that is the absolute worst time of year to be there, bar none). Or the _one_ item you need is at _one_ store in town—smack in the middle of the mall.

Hearth and Gnome is like Crate and Barrel… drawn by Picasso; like Home Depot's garden center… plucked from the DVD of _Coraline_; like _Better Homes and Gardens_… edited by Abby Scuito. It was more than 'a bubble off of plumb' as Gibbs' dad would put it.

It was also a fun place. And, keeping their name in mind, it was the #1 place for all things gnomish.

Mother is on the hit list for almost every charity on the planet and at least as many catalogues. (From August onward, we leave a milk crate by the mailbox with a sign reading "CATALOGUES" on it. At that time of year, it's filled up every 3 days or so.) Mother marks items with post-its, Charlie makes a spreadsheet, and then helps Mother cull and order in November. "But you'll see what you're getting for Christmas!" Mother objected. "I'll close my eyes as I type," Charlie said with a grin. Mother was satisfied.

While perusing yet another catalogue, Charlie stumbled over a set of gnome gardening pots. A dozen gnomes in various positions, each with an open area for a small potted plant, perfect for an herb garden. The catalogue company wanted $149.99 (plus tax and shipping). "They have a rather high opinion of their goods," Charlie sniffed.

A little hunting on the net, a couple of phone calls, and she found the exact same set at Hearth and Gnome—for $59.95. And at the end of summer, it was marked down to $29.95. Since this was an anniversary gift for Lily and Ev, she certainly couldn't ask _them_ for a ride; I was happy to drive even before she offered ice cream as a bribe.

Charlie snagged her gnome pots, Lexi found a t-shirt emblazoned _I never met a piece of chocolate I didn't like_ (and in her size) and I stumbled over a Wild, Wild West-type wanted poster reading **WANTED: $10,000 Reward - Schroedinger's Cat, Dead ****and**** Alive**. I wasn't sure if I'd give it away or keep it—but I _had_ to buy it. We celebrated our finds over ice cream (and I refused to let Charlie pay). "I love them dearly," she said, shoveling in ice cream quickly before it could turn into soup. "But sometimes the kitsch is overwhelming. At least they keep the gnomes confined to the _back_ yard."

"At least," I agreed. Lily and Ev actually have excellent taste. They both often look like they walked out of a high end fashion show. The house is decorated—redecorated, actually—beautifully, and their bookstore/genealogy research office was in the Arts and Leisure section of the _Metro Mirror_ last year under "hidden local gems." But, like any of us, they have their moments. One of them is an overwhelming fondness for garden gnomes—in or out of the garden. "At least it's not pink flamingoes," I amended, thinking of a neighbor of ours.

Charlie's smile faltered. "Mmmmh." I looked at her quizzically; her gaze dropped and she turned toward Lexi, dipping a paper napkin in her water and cleaning the ice cream and condiments from her niece's face and hands.

There was a crowd of teens behind her, loud and rowdy, in the 'you'll be embarrassed when you're 30 and look back on this' way of teenagers. (I have memories of being a total _ass_ at the Tik-Tok Diner, things that are burned into my brain and will remain there until my senility makes Mother look like a Nobel laureate.) "Oh, that is _so gay_!" one of the you walked out of the house wearing _that_?/overdone makeup/skinny as a pencil girls trilled

I rolled my eyes. Back when I was in school, the big amusement was _ jokes. Italian, Polish, Irish, Catholic, Jewish, black folks, white folks—pick a group, it got skewered. (Larry Wilde made a fortune collecting them into book form.) We were young and insensitive; it's another thing I look back on and wince a little. But considering the focus on equal rights, lead strongly by the (sigh) younger generation—this phrase just baffles me.

Someone further down the table laughed at something we missed and threw out his own iteration of the lame phrase. Just as I figured, _what the hell, let's bail_, Charlie's head snapped up and she had 'that look' in her eye.

She let out a loud laugh. "Oh, Aunt Sandy!" she belted out at a decibel that carried four or five tables away. "So funny! You are so funny! That is _**so heterosexual**_**!"**

Dead silence from the next table. Charlie looked over and smiled sweetly at them. "That's stupid," one of the girls scoffed.

"Equally stupid," Charlie said agreeably. "The difference is… some people will take _your_ foolish words and use them against _my_ mothers." Her smile faded. "Please. Don't let that happen." Before they had a chance to do more than look at each other uneasily, she gathered the debris and tossed it in the trash and collected her shopping bag. "Shall we?"

Lexi hopped off the chair and took Charlie's right hand and my left, swinging to and fro. As we walked past the still quiet table, I glanced over…and saw a couple of the kids giving Charlie small, but approving smiles.

Score one for the home team!

* * *

><p>While<em> natter<em> is a real word, it's part of a phrase I first ran into in David Gerrold's book, _The Trouble With Tribbles_. In acting class, if you are part of the background and supposed to be having a conversation that is just quiet chatter, you have to make noises that sound like conversation but actually aren't. He learned to have one person say, "Natter, natter, natter," and the other person respond, "Grommish, grommish, grommish." Natter & grommish is just so much mindless noise… like teens at the mall.


	57. Revenge is a Dish Best Served Microwaved

October, 2009

* * *

><p><strong>Revenge is a Dish Best Served Microwaved<strong>

"People who steal lunches suck genetically altered worms."

Abby is, uh, interesting in her choice of invective. "Someone nicked your brown bag?"

"Not _mine_. Bill Thornton. He and his wife are saving for the down payment on a house, so be brings his lunch. They're saving every penny they can. Three times in two weeks someone has swiped it, so he had to _buy_ lunch!"

"They riffled his desk?"

She shook her head. "They're cracking down on people keeping food in their desks." She and Ducky exchanged faintly guilty looks; they have their own refrigerators (of necessity) and keep food in them. RHIP. "Well, on the bullpen floor, anyway. They had a _problem_," she euphemized. She hummed a few bars of _La Cucaracha_ in case I missed it.

"Ah. But you two are allowed…"

"We're clean freaks," Abby said cheerfully.

True enough. "So is anyone else getting hit?"

She nodded. "I suggested surveillance cameras; Director Vance said it's not in the budget. But Bill gets hit the most."

"What—is he George McFly, NCIS's 'pick on me first' dweeb?"

Ducky shook his head. "His wife, Carrie, is a _fabulous_ cook. Remember the Family Day picnic last year?" I nodded. "Remember the chicken roulade in puff pastry?"

I remembered it so well my stomach rumbled. "Can't forgive the theft," I said. "But I can understand the temptation. Maybe he should doctor his lunch. You know, Ex-Lax on a brownie? I had a friend in college who had her oj swiped every morning. 'Borrowed' some citric acid form the chem lab, put in a real heavy dose. It stopped."

"Well…" Abby said hesitantly.

"Or just resign himself to PBJs." I shrugged philosophically and turned back to my own cooking. It was spaghetti night; two pots of sauce were simmering on the back burners.

I almost missed the 'ah-ha!' on her face. "PB and J…" she mused. Her eyes glittered. "I have an idea…"

Han Solo fluttered through my mind: _I have a bad feeling about this…_

/ / / / /

***ping***

_The Case of the Pilfered Pot Roast is solved!_

I pressed the "call" selection on the text message screen. "Hi, Sandy!" Abby chirped.

"Okay. What happened?"

"Oh, you should have been here at lunch! It was Dave Seldon from accounting! He looked pretty weasely," she said sagaciously. "Actually—he looked kinda green when the EMTs took him away."

I squeaked. "Abby! Oh, my god! Did you _kill_ him?"

"No, no," she laughed. "But he's feeling _pretty crappy_."

"Uh-oh—Ex-Lax doughnuts?" Jeez. Will I be sued as an accomplice?"

"No," she said with a giggle. "PBJ."

"Oh, shit," I moaned. It was _my_ suggestion. "He's got a nut allergy?"

"Nope. But he's not real crazy about habaneros, I bet."

I blinked. "Come again?"

"Bill made a _very special_ sandwich last night," she said mysteriously. "Tootsie makes this—"

"Tootsie?"

"Carrie's nickname is Tootsie. Don't ask me why. Anyway, she makes this _awesome_ wholegrain bread, just _incredible,_ everyone knows it's the best on the planet, so even just a PBJ is a—a _religious experience_."

PBJ and milk replacing wafers and wine? Hmm.

"So. Bill made this _beautiful_ sandwich. Natural, chunky-style peanut butter. Orange marmalade…" She snickered. "Mmmmh—_not_! Did you know that some kinds of honey have a color like light orange marmalade?"

"I do, now,' I said cautiously.

"And if you carefully sliver habanero chilies and mix them with the honey, boy, it looks just like orange marmalade. But when you bite into it—"

"Oh, _ow_."

"Yep. Security brought the lunch over, asked Bill what the hell he poisoned Dave with. Bill just gave him an innocent look. 'Peanut butter and habanero honey.' Pete gave him this, 'oh, please' look—so Bill takes the unbitten half, takes a big chomp, washes it down with a nice gulp of milk—"

I laughed. I've eaten enough Mexican and Middle Eastern food. You want to quash a fire in your mouth? Use yogurt or milk.

"—and he swallowed the bite whole, so it was surrounded by the bread. Well, _clearly_ he just packed it for lunch, never _dreaming_ someone would steal it…"

I was laughing. Hard. I couldn't _not_ laugh.

"Security cleared out his desk—theft is a _big_ company no-no—and schlepped it to him in the ER. Can you imagine how embarrassing that was?"

"Cheaters never prosper," I said primly.

"Nope. But I think I'm gonna make a PB and HH tonight—just to try it out."

"You may have my share."

The moral of the story is—don't get mad, don't get even, get ahead… and stay there.

* * *

><p>This tale was lifted darn near whole cloth from A Friend In Real Life. Only the work location has been changed to protect the guilty… and the innocent.<p> 


	58. SYNONYM (noun): A Word Used In Place

May, 2008

* * *

><p><strong>SYNONYM (<strong>_**noun**_**): A Word Used In Place Of The One You Can't Spell**

I plopped onto the couch, arms folded above my bulk and pouting. "Not fair."

Evelyn laughed. "_Who_ told _you_ that life is fair?"

"'Fair' is where yuh takes your pig and gets a blue ribbon," Lily drawled. From his desk, Ducky snorted faintly.

"But how will Charlie—or Peanut!—learn proper grammar without diagramming sentences?" I wailed.

Charlie looked up from her spot on the floor where she was doing her English homework on the coffee table—homework that had started this whole discussion. "Sentence diagramming didn't come into being until the mid-nineteenth century," she said in a reasonable tone.

"The last quarter-century—though there had been some notable work beforehand," Ducky interjected.

"True," Charlie agreed with a slight inclining of her head. Kindred spirits, those two.

"We managed without diagramming sentences until then. I'm sure Charlotte and—_Peanut_—will be fine without learning how to graph grammar."

"Yeah, the literacy of the Dark Ages pops to mind," I said in a mildly sarcastic tone. He just shook his head and went back to his computer. "Come on. Underlining and line-offs and—" I caught Ev's repressed amusement. "Okay, it wasn't fun when we _had_ to do it, but it's a valuable skill."

"It had gone the way of the dinosaurs when I got to school," Ev said cheerfully.

I gasped. "No. No way."

"Yep. Lily and I missed New Math, too."

I shuddered. Base 8 New Math had screwed up my basic math skills something fierce.

"You can't take three from two, two is less than three, so you at the four in the eights place," Lily chanted. It's scary how well we can all recite Tom Lehrer songs. "Now, that's really four eights, so you make it three eights, regroup, and you change an eight to eight ones, and you add them to the two, and you get one-two base eight, which is ten base ten, and you take away three, that's seven. Okay?"

"Hooray for New Math," I half-sang sourly, quoting the chorus of the song. "But back to the topic—"

"You're worried that without Sister Mary Elephant standing over with a steel-edged yardstick at hand, beating noun-verb-predicate into your kid, you'll be hearing 'I don't got no homework' in ten years," L:ily diagnosed.

"Well—"

"Have you _ever_ heard Charlie say anything even _remotely_ like that?"

"No, but—"

"_She_ has never had a class in diagramming sentences. Has Evvie—or have I—ever used anything but standard, grammatical English—unless it's to drive home a point?"

"No, but—"

"_We_ have never had classes in diagramming sentences." She flapped her hands over in a "well?" gesture. "There you go," she said, in a perfect imitation of Michael Constantine in _My Big Fat Greek Wedding_.

"We all fruit," I quoted back. I had a sudden, unpleasant vision of my brain exploding while trying to break my kid of saying, "Me do it!" I think I'm just going to have the baby… and run away from home. Alone.

/ / / / /

It was a hot, muggy day. I was stubbornly driving myself to and from the store, telling Ducky that it would be just our luck that he'd catch a case right before my close time and I'd be cooling my heels until midnight. But this was one of the days when I was wishing I had a chauffeur.

No chauffeur, but a first-rate chef. When I got home, Ducky had already arrived and was three-fourths through making dinner. (And with the heat of the day, cold tuna tarragon salad sounded fabulous.) "You might want to check my desk," he said casually, draining the egg noodles. "There seems to be a bag with _your_ name on it."

Ooh. Treats. Cool beans! I waddled off to the office, hoping for something chocolate (but happy to get anything). In the middle of Ducky's desk was a big, bright purple bag with "The Learning Curve" on it. Inside: a couple of Mad Libs notepads; a hardback book, "Sister Bernadette's Barking Dog"; a children's game, "Silly Sentences"; a couple of 8-1/2x11 workbooks ("Nouns, Verbs and Adjectives, Oh My!" and "Diagramming Sentences Can Be FUN!"); and a pad of paper with preprinted sentence diagrams. I cocked my head and looked skeptically at the kitchen door. Is he poking fun at me… or getting with the program? Hmm.

There was also a box of truffles from Charlotte's Chocolates.

Life is good.

/ / /

It's amazing what you forget over time. Use it or lose it, that's for sure.

While we sat around the coffee table that night, I discovered I could whip out the basics—nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs—but stumbled over things like adverbial clauses, split infinitives (beyond "to boldly go," I mean) and the like. Oh,well. So much for Mrs. Gardner in third grade through Mr. Kelley in the eighth and all that damned diagramming. I still love the James Joyce poster at the store.

But we had fun. "Silly Sentences" was geared toward 1-3 year olds, according to the box. Cards were color coded—nouns one color, verbs another, adjectives a third and so on, and they all had jigsaw puzzle-type tabs to connect one word to the next. The instructions suggested that you start with simple, logical sentences for small children ("The frog jumped." "The green frog jumped.") and work your way up to nonsense. We cut right to the chase and tried to make each other lose it. Evelyn won, hands down. Was anyone surprised? No, we were not.

But Mother won her own prize. It was Suzy's turn to write down the parts of speech, filling in the "Mad Libs" blanks. After we had finished throwing out words, she pulled the fill in the blanks sheet out and slipped it under the template… and froze.

"You know, it's awfully late," she said with a semi-stifled yawn. "I need to hit the road."

"Read it, quickly," I said, yawning as well. Yawns are more contagious than colds. Even if the first one was a little suspect.

"Nah…" She shoved the paper in her purse and hustled to her feet. "You're painting the nursery this weekend?"

Perfect deflection. Lily, Ev and Charlie fell into a not-quite heated debate (Ducky and I were willing to have them spearhead the project with only two stipulations: no heavy on the pink or blue and we make the final decision) and Ducky and I walked Suzy to her car (Mother was helping the décor discussion by describing Ducky's nursery from decades ago).

"Okay, spill it," I teased.

Opening the station wagon's front door, she shook her head. "I know it's luck of the draw what word ends up where it does, and Victoria didn't _plan_ any of her answers…" She shook her head again and slipped inside the car.

"Mrs. Bailey…" Ducky drew out, mock-sternly.

She tipped her head and looked up at us. "Nope. Uh-uh. No way, José. Negatory." She turned the key and the mighty V-8 engine roared to life. "I'm going to burn it in the kitchen sink…" She put the car into reverse. "…and bleach my eyeballs!" With a cheery wave and a promise to see us bright and early, she drove off.

Ducky sighed. "Trust Mother to do something vile." There was no anger in his words; maybe a little resigned amusement.

"Heck, _I've_ donated some all-too-right—or wrong, depending on your view—words to the mix. And she didn't do it on _purpose_," I chided.

"No… if it had been on purpose, it would have been much, _much_ worse."

I remembered the last time Gibbs came to dinner and repressed a wince. The fact that he has a very forgiving nature—regarding Mother, anyway—made me sure his last visit wasn't _the_ last visit he'd make. "But she is your mother, and we love her," I said, hoping I didn't sound _too_ prim or didactic.

He smiled down at me. "Yes. _We_ do."

I bumped my forehead against his. "Package deal, y'know."

He patted the beach ball under my t-shirt. "Package deal."


	59. I Heart Nihilism

Spring , 2015

* * *

><p><strong>I {Heart} Nihilism<strong>

I like to think I'm a decent driver.

I've handled everything from a moped in college to a 30-plus foot moving van. (I wanted to get everything from my "I'm sick of paying rent" house in Virginia to my "Holy crap, I'm paying a mortgage!" house in Maryland in one trip—I was paying helpers in pizza and beer and couldn't afford more than one trip.) Other than someone else hitting _me_, I've never had an accident. And, other than a few parking tickets, my last moving violation was when the national 55 speed limit was lifted in a few areas; I was _sure_ it said 65, but I was wrong. A weekend at traffic school, and my insurance company was none the wiser. Heck, I haven't even been _stopped_ in a quarter of a century.

But… records, even good ones, are made to be broken.

In order to haul the number of books I frequently do, I made a choice early on. Truck… or van. Trucks are built to haul a ton or two of stuff; vans are meant for lower volume. Trucks are open bed; vans, you can sleep in if need be. After consulting with friends in the business, I went with a cargo van, reinforced frame, two-ton capacity, keeping the back seats in reserve. Took forever to pay it off, but proper maintenance keeps it purring like a kitten. Until the clutch gave out.

"Why are you turning off the engine?" Ducky asked one evening while we were running to Costco.

"Hunh?"

"When you pull up to a light, you've taken to turning off the engine. Do you think you're saving fuel?"

"I hadn't even noticed." I paid attention at the next light. "Oh. Yeah, she's getting argumentative about downshifting, it's easier to turn off the engine and start it in first. Funny how you adapt without noticing."

He looked at me sharply. "How is reverse?"

I had to think about it. I back out of the driveway in the morning and from the parking lot at night. Twice a day, unless I have errands to run. "Same… thing," I said slowly.

"The gears aren't meshing cleanly, either. I can hear it." (He would.) "You need a clutch job, my dear. And, I'm sorry; the van is beyond my abilities. I haven't the jack stands to support it, if nothing else."

My usual mechanic had the same opinion. Plus a price tag. And because cars operate much like kids (one kid in the class gets sick, EVERYONE in the class gets sick), he was jammed full for the next week. If I could leave it Monday night, he _should_ have it done my lunchtime Wednesday. Dinner, at the latest.

I hemmed and hawed. Technically, we have three cars, but Ducky's Morgan is semi-retired and he drives the sedan to work. He could drive the Morgan (or I could), or one of us drive the other and play pickup service—

"Or you could borrow _my_ car," Charlie suggested over dinner Saturday night. "I know you know how to drive it."

With as many times as Ev and I took her wagon to events—yes, I could drive it. "But that will leave you with no transportation while you're in town."

She gave me a mock shocked look. "Metro." She grinned. "Plus I'll be at Papyrus or our shop half the time. Please. Take it!"

Charlie was in town for spring break. She had no interest in running down to Ft. Lauderdale and getting drunk (even if she could; she's still way under the legal age); she preferred to spend her holidays at home. At least this time we had a chance for a long visit.

Her first year at my alma mater, she had chauffeur service for Christmas break. Because she was working at Target around her classes, she didn't quite _get_ the full break; Ev and Lily drove down, picked her up at 2pm on Christmas Eve; Ducky, Lexi and I drove her back in time to make her 8am shift the day after Christmas. Easter isn't as a big a retail holiday, so she wangled the week off and drove herself. She had helped out (paid and unpaid) at Ev's shop and mine, but there was something quite different from a used bookstore and one of the retail giants in the US.

It sure explained one of her bumper stickers, anyway. _Show me someone with a deep hatred of the human race_ the red on black top half read. The black on red bottom continued, _And I'll show you someone who works retail_. To the left of that was a rainbow, _Celebrate Diversity!_ Dead center was an oldie, _Want a challenging career? Try herding cats!_ Evelyn had had a few of her own, faded by time and the elements. Charlie had at least a dozen; nothing too obscene, so I figured I was safe borrowing the car. (I didn't want the safety monitor at the school to report me. The woman has _no_ sense of humor.)

With multiple thanks and a promise to return the car with a brim full tank, we made arrangements for her to meet me at Willie's Monday afternoon. I'd drop her at Ev and Lily's store, pick up Lexi from school and connect with everyone at dinner and go from there. There was just one _slight_ deviation from that plan.

As I tooled down the road to Lexi's school I had Bill Cosby's "200 MPH" playing on the CD. "_Rrrrrrrrrrrr!_ Christmas! I figure the cops are hiding in my trunk— " I laughed. Loudly. I _love_ Bill Cosby.

_Rrrrrrrrrrrr!_ I looked around, confused; it wasn't coming from the speakers. I glanced up and saw colored lights in the rear view mirror. Christmas! Oh, crap. I pulled over. "Is there a problem, officer?"

"License, registration, proof of insurance, please."

I scrambled for the necessary papers. After he checked for wants and warrants, he came back. "Sir?"

"Do you know how fast you were going?"

I winced. "I have to be honest. I wasn't looking at the number, I was watching traffic. This is my niece's car…" I trailed off.

"I clocked you doing 33."

33? That's two _under_.

"This is a 25 zone, ma'am."

Oh, _crap_. "I am so sorry. I usually drive a Chevy extended cargo van, a lot bigger and heavier… I guess… it just didn't seem that fast…?" I said hopefully.

He nodded and went back to his squad car. Damn, damn and double damn. Not looking forward to telling Ducky.

"Ma'am?" He handed me the registration and insurance card, and then my license. "You have a very clean record ma'am, and other than exceeding the speed limit, you were driving very safely. You didn't make any unsafe lane changes, you came to a full stop at every stop sign—"

Holy cow, how long were you back there?

"So I'm going to let you off with a warning this time. Keep an eye on the speedometer."

"I will! Thank you! I will!"

"And…" He flashed a grin. "You didn't hurt my feelings."

I looked at him blankly. "Uh… I'm glad?"

He laughed roundly. "Now I _know_ it's not your car."

With mounting dread, I followed him to the back of the car. Right between _Stop pissing me off, I'm running out of places to hide the bodies_ and _Puritanism: The haunting fear that someone, somewhere may be happy_ was a sticker I had somehow missed. _I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings!_ I groaned and my face fell into my hands as I read the second half. _I was aiming for your balls!_

I took back streets the rest of the way home.

* * *

><p>The title is from a bumper sticker I saw back in college. The original is I (heart symbol) Nihilism; I laughed so hard, I almost drove off the road. FF being streamlined in terms of what you can and cannot put up, the heart symbol does not translate, nor does the less than sideways V-plus-3 (thext speak heart). It's wickedly funny to see the real deal. (I had a poster of 5 sweet kittens, the last one dabbing a paw in a goldfish bowl. I put a note overhead reading, "If you knew Sushi, like I know Sushi..." The same people who get the Nihilism sticker will get my post-it.)<p> 


	60. Anything Free Is Worth What You Paid

Summer, 2014

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><p><strong>Anything Free Is Worth What You Paid For It<strong>

Just like some people have definite views on over or under for a toilet paper roll, peanut butter or jelly on the top slice or the bottom of the sandwich and other vital questions, they undoubtedly have set patterns for paying bills and financial management. Some people pay them as they come in; some people wait until payday or some other set date. Some people carefully balance their checkbook each month; others never do, figuring, "what the bank says must be right." (I would go crazy with that last person. Seriously.)

When you have your own business, you either learn to keep careful records or your live your life with the specter of an audit hanging overhead. Worse than the sword of Damocles, if you ask me.

Ducky is one of those precise, methodical people who makes bill paying, if not a joy, at least not a dreaded chore. The checkbook has crisp, clean entries that look like a monk's notations; the bank statement has careful checkmarks and o's, and he balances to the penny. The credit cards have receipts checked, stapled to the statement and the balance paid in full each month. (The phrase "interest payment" makes him twitch.) I take care of the utilities and such; on Sunday night we both go over any bank or credit card statements that arrived during the week.

"Did you get new shoes last month?"

"Uh… no," I said distractedly, trying to read the tiny print on the date for half a dozen gasoline receipts. I had hit an even $60 on each purchase, making it even more difficult to put the right receipt in the right pile. I caught up with the conversation a few seconds late. "Oh. Stevens' Bootery?"

"Yes."

Ducky refuses to get his shoes at a department store or discount outlet, preferring to go somewhere where the sales clerks were taught how to properly size and fit shoes. I have to admit, when he converted me to buying from a "proper" shoe store (instead of the sale rack at T-Mart) my knees stopped hurting and my back didn't ache nearly as much. Stevens' has been in the shoe business since the early 1900s, handed down from father to son, mother to daughter. They took credit cards with great reluctance, checks with proper ID, and for old customers, allowed them to "charge" on their account and get a monthly statement. Ducky opted for the store account when he first moved to Virginia; understanding the hideous user fees the banks charge small businesses for credit and debit card transactions, he has continued to keep the account active. It's the Don Quixote in him. "I forgot. Lexi needed shoes for school, they had a great sale going on—"

He frowned and shook his head. "Well, this is a first. They double charged us! I'm sure it's a simple clerical error; I'll call them in the morning—"

"Uh—" I winced. "It's not an error."

"The amounts are _exactly_ the same. One is charged June 4, the other June 27. To the penny! What else could it be—"

"Well… Like I said, they had a great sale going on. And she needed _everything_. If she hadn't outgrown it, she had worn it out. So she got sneakers, sandals, galoshes, dress shoes—" He looked at me with a, 'well?' expression. "And she outgrew them. You mentioned how high her jeans were riding on her ankles the other day? Well, that growth spurt hit _everywhere_. She had done a good job of breaking things in, so I couldn't very well return them…"

"No, no." Ducky may be cautious with money, but he's no cheat.

"And since the sale was on and we got the same things… it was the same amount both times."

He nodded in acceptance. "I see." As I passed by him to get a fresh cup of tea, I heard him mutter, "But at those prices, I can begin to understand the practice of foot binding!"

* * *

><p>Yeah, yeah, I know Ducky wouldn't do such a thing and would understand the horror of the act. But it still made me laugh when my mother said it when <em>she<em> got the bill.


	61. The Gods Love Heroes They Also Love

March, 2015

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><p><strong>The Gods Love Heroes. They Also Love A Good Laugh. Think About It.<strong>

"Do you have Evvie's number handy? My cell phone fried, I need to re-enter everything in my new one."

"Sure." I knew Ev would have no problem with me giving it out, and rattled it off for Valerie from memory.

"Tanks mooch." She punched in the numbers. "Hey, Ev, you and Lily still play? Nah, I haven't for a couple of years, I'd feel funny calling Lady Ravenclaw for a favor. I was hoping…"

Her voice trailed off as she walked toward the back of the store. What favor could the local medieval recreation group hold for her? Recipes? Help sewing an outfit? Tons of cool camping equipment?

"Are you bribeable?" she asked, returning to the front counter.

"Depends. Is it illegal, immoral or fattening?"

"No, no, and no."

"Darn."

"I'm moving."

I nodded. She had lucked into a starter house with a nice, big yard—not fancy, not big, not a slum, but not high rent—and had been running around the past few months getting everything in place.

"Well… I'm behind. Way behind. I _have_ to be out of my place by the 29th so they have time to inspect it before the end of my lease. I didn't trash the place, but I want to get my security back. So I _really_ need to clean…"

My heart sank—but just a little. How many times had she come in extra hours to help with icky stuff around the store? Plenty. So, sure, I'd help white tornado her place.

"I've got it covered—"

Phew.

"—but I am totally behind on packing. You are the most organized person I know—you can pack more crap in the van than physics should allow. Look at the number of books we have—and we aren't breaking any fire marshal laws! So I was hoping you could… help me pack?" she asked hopefully.

"Sure. When?"

"This weekend?"

The 21st and 22nd. "Nothing like cutting it close."

"I have all the boxes," she added quickly. "And bubblewrap and markers and—"

"You need more bodies?"

"Well…"

/ / / / /

Saturday morning found me boxing books, DVDs, CDs and other flat stuff, Ducky wrapping dishes and breakables and even Lexi bagging clothing and other squishy stuff. A couple of friends from grad school helped her wrestle the furniture outside and clean like their lives depended upon it. I carefully stacked boxes and bags in the cab end of the U-haul; the furniture would go in last, get offloaded first and then boxes go in the house around them. Logic.

"You need help on the other end?" I asked. She said she had strong backs coming that night to load the furniture.

"Don't think so. Lots of ooks on hand in the morning."

Ooks—recreationist term for the big, brawny fighters in the group, a name originated in the SCA (rumor had it they had one brain among them and would rotate ownership on a weekly basis). "Oh. Okay."

"But if you want to help unpack the boxes, I won't say no…"

It's actually _fun_ organizing someone else's stuff. At least, _I_ think so. Ducky stayed home to keep an eye on Mother (Abby had kept her occupied on Saturday, taking her to a Clark Gable marathon at the revival theatre in Herndon), but Lexi came along for the ride, willing to sort and organize books and DVDs with me. _She_ thinks it's fun, too.

I hadn't gone to an SCA, ECS or EBR event in years. (Society for Creative Anachronism started the whole mess. Empire of Chivalry and Steel was an offshoot of the SCA, and Empire of the Blood Roses, the group Lily, Ev, Charlie and, until recently, Valerie played in, was an offshoot of _that_; it was a lot less rules-oriented than the SCA. The Costume Nazi's won't flog you for using zippers, for example.) I used to attend the wars and events, manning a book booth, but it had been a while. So I had forgotten how… _imposing_… some warriors can be.

Their ages ranged spanned a generation, from 20 (Squire Basil) to 53 (Baron Brunvald, current King of Laurasia, Eastern Realm). Not a one was under 5'11", and the first 6 to arrive could probably pick up my van and walk it down the block without breaking a sweat. They hefted bookcases under their arms and balanced tables on their heads with nary an "oof." They did a team lift on the sofa only because it was too big for one person to schlepp on his lonesome. They had the truck empty in a twinkling, to the interest of the teens and young adults loitering in the neighborhood.

But they weren't through. Baron Brunvald yelled, "Gear up!" (his voice carrying at least a mile) and threw open the back doors of his van. Trunks to other vehicles were opened and equipment passed from hand to hand. Lest anyone think baseball or other sports equipment, we're talking swords (mostly metal, but a few rattan practice pieces), shields, helmets and padding. The eyes of the surrounding young men grew wider. The Baron gave a quick once over to make sure the safety gear was in place and appropriate to the weaponry being used, then: "COMMENCE!"

The air was rent with the hard thwack of rattan on shield, clash of metal on metal, and yells of, "Cur!" "Vile dog!" and, after a particularly good hit, "Six-fathered son of a tosspot strumpet!" Off to the side, a couple of guys were working on their fencing moves (neither looking quite as delectable as George Takei running around the Enterprise without his shirt on; sorry, guys), but most of the participants were wielding BAWs—Big Ass Weapons. Charlie, Ev and Lily (who had gotten back early from a weekend away and come over to help), Valerie, Lexi, and I took a break, grabbed some drinks and lounged about the porch for a while to watch the show.

It took only 20 minutes for the cops to show up.

"Hold arms!" the Baron bellowed. Combat stopped immediately. Warriors stood at polite attention, swords lowered and points to the ground, hands resting lightly atop pommels. Helmets were removed and a couple of guys tossed off their lightweight armor (planning to upgrade for round two). "May I help you?" he said cordially to the officers who were approaching _very_ cautiously.

"What's going on?" The first cop, a balding redhead in his late forties, asked with careful neutrality, eyes sweeping over the crowd. His partner hung back slightly, thumbs lightly resting on his belt (and one hand close to his sidearm).

Joey (aka Baron Brunvald) gave him a benign smile. "Fighter practice. We're all in the EBR—The Empire of the Blood Roses. It's a medieval recreation group. We have wars, feasts, dances…"

"May I?" The second officer, a late-twenties young man, Japanese-American I guessed, gestured to the ook nearest him, indicating the nice Claymore with a basket hilt. The sword was hefted effortlessly and presented with blade horizontal. "Jeez," the officer muttered as his hands dropped with the weight. "Where did you _get_ this?"

Sheldon shrugged. "Guy in Richmond, Rusty Baker. He made probably half the gear here. Costs more than the other armorers, and there's a waiting list… but you get what you pay for."

Having figured out there was no gang war going on, the cops relaxed slightly. The first officer was now inspecting the vent grille of the helmet a guy in a _Born To Raze Helms_ t-shirt had offered. "This is _nice_."

We watched from the porch, amused. Once it was clear nobody would be charged or hauled off, the guys dropped their guard and chatted for a bit, showing off their equipment and answering dozens of questions.

"I know they say never bring a knife to a gunfight…" the younger officer said, handing back a particularly pretty broadsword.

"That's not a knife," one of the ooks piped up in a fair Paul Hogan imitation.

"_This_ is a knife!" half a dozen voices chorused.

"You might want to keep this in the back yard," the first officer cautioned. "The neighbors might get… upset."

"Will do." Baron Brunvald grinned. "Guess we shouldn't practice the caber toss out here, either?"

"Caber toss?" the second officer called back. They were halfway back to their squad car.

"Yeah. It's for the Scottish Games. Basically, you pick up a telephone pole and toss it end over end."

"_You_ are able to pick up a _telephone pole_ and throw it?" The officer's voice carried for a couple of houses.

Two of the gangbanger wannabes looked at each other, shocked, then looked back at the ooks with growing respect. "Sure," Brunvald said with a 'doesn't everyone?' shrug. They didn't know Joey is 53—but they could tell he was close to their dads' age. It was highly doubtful either dad could flip a phone pole.

"Anybody hassles this place… is crazy," the Japanese-American cop called out to his partner. I think I saw him wink.

"We'll be over here _a lot_," Brunvald called out. "You're welcome to stop by!"

"We will!"

We watched the 'boys' go back to playing, while a small group of toughs held a quiet conference across the street. One of them scurried over and moved the old Impala that was half-blocking Valerie's driveway. She had politely asked them to move it up a few feet this morning, and got some cuss-sprinkled lip for her effort. Now he swung it in a u-turn and parked it in front of his house. "Sorry, ma'am. We'll be more better careful next time," he called out.

_Ma'am_. I swallowed my grin as Valerie called out, "Thank you!"

Squire Basil (with his padding off, I saw he was wearing a shirt reading _Hero for Hire - Damsels Rescued, Dragons Slain, Treasures Recovered, Scoundrels Foiled, Kingdoms Saved, Rudeness Punished, 1-800-555-HERO_) plopped onto the porch and reached for a can of soda. "Problem solved?"

"Problem solved," Valerie confirmed.

Sometimes you don't want to live by, "Don't get mad, get one up." Sometimes, "Don't get mad, get _weird_" is better!

* * *

><p>So glad to see people stopping by! And, after the hassles I've had uploading what little I've managed, I can *certainly* understand not logging in to the site. If you're leaving a comment as a guest, you you mind mentioning your screen name in the review? I feel so rude not acknowledging that you've been in. Thankyoueversoverymuch.<p> 


	62. Everyone Is Entitled To Be Stupid

August, 2008

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><p><strong>Everyone Is Entitled To Be Stupid, But Some People Abuse The Privilege<strong>

Under the best of conditions, driving in the summer in Virginia isn't bad. Humid weather, pregnant 'out to here' and trying to scramble in and out of a cargo van is _not_ what one would call the best of conditions.

But I was lucky. Ducky would willingly run to the store for me, or play chauffeur. Lily and Ev were at the house on a regular basis and would happily schlepp my pregnant butt here, there and everywhere. Suzy would have to take Mother along, but I didn't mind; her station wagon was a lot easier to get in and out of than my van, and shopping with Mother is, well, interesting.

"Dinner," I sighed, staring into the depths of the freezer. The fridge in the house had provided no inspiration; the freezer in the garage was just as helpful.

"Spaghetti?" Dusky suggested. "You have several containers of sauce…"

"Nah…"

"Lamb stew? You have that lovely roast—" he pointed into the far corner. "I know we have carrots, new potatoes—"

"Nah…"

"Pork roulade? I haven't made it in a while. Or steamed salmon?"

"Nah…"

My husband has the patience of a saint. Oh, he has a temper when he wants (or needs) to have one—and I've been on the receiving end a couple of times. Justifiably, I might add. But if he had been treating _me_ to unending, unenthusiastic, negative responses, I probably would have pointed him to the pile of takeout menus or handed him a frozen dinner. But he was set on spoiling me when he could and humoring me when he needed to. (And I will never, ever laugh at the concept of pickles and ice cream again—not after he was understanding enough to run out at 3:42 a.m. to get me liver and onions from Denny's (and I normally _hate_ liver and onions—well, the liver part). It was the maple syrup that I poured over it that made him leave the room.)

But… takeout menus…

"Chicken!" I said suddenly, like I'd been given the answer to a troublesome final exam question. "Teriyaki chicken! And fried rice! And egg rolls, and wontons and—"

"Certainly," he agreed. "Happy Dragon?"

"No! I wanna do it from scratch."

He looked at me dubiously. "That's a lot of work…"

I brushed him off. "Not that much, and my teriyaki chicken beats any restaurant, even Happy Dragon. I haven't made it since—" I cocked my head. "I never _have_ made it for you! You're a virgin!"

He coughed and almost choked to death right then and there.

"You know what I mean," I scolded. I peered into the freezer again. "Can you beat that? Every creature _but_ chicken. Okay. Gotta get wonton skins and other stuff anyway…"

I hustled off to make a shopping list. When Evelyn heard I was making teriyaki chicken (_she's_ not a virgin), she all but fell over herself volunteering to drive me to the market. While Lily snickered quietly, Ev just shook her head. "Wait 'til you eat it. To. Die. For," she said dramatically. I preened, grabbed my purse and maneuvered my bulk out the door and into the passenger seat of her wagon.

"Wegman's?"

"Wegman's," I confirmed.

Ev fired up the engine and put the wagon into reverse. Well—she tried to, anyway. Clutch in, gear out— Not. Clutch in—wiggle up, down; gear out.

Not.

Evelyn jumped out of the driver's seat and stomped back to the kitchen, snarling a string of cuss words and multicultural blasphemy (only half of which I understood) and coming back with Lily and Ducky in tow. They poked and prodded and spoke in mechanic-ese and finally concurred that her clutch had crossed the river Styx overnight. They called the local parts shop found they had A and B out of four parts, but could have the other two transferred from another shop by noon. Ev and Ducky would tear out the old stuff while Lily and I hit the market and then ran by Parts Is Parts.

I ran down the shopping list and stopped near the bottom. "Uh—I have a stupid question. This is a manual shift car. Right?"

"Right," Ev confirmed.

"Why are we buying _automatic_ transmission fluid?"

Ducky laughed slightly. "Good question. I already asked."

"It's a manual shift with a front wheel drive. Because of the front wheel drive, it takes automatic transmission fluid," Ev explained. I still looked doubtful. "Saturns can be odd." She didn't sound superior or condescending.

"Oh. Okay." Hell, she could tell me there was a wheel with robotic hamsters running the thing and I'd believe her. What I know about mechanics of a car could fill a thimble—Barbie's thimble.

I shifted over to Lily's car and we trundled off to the market. Four bursting bags of groceries later, we headed to the parts shop.

"Master cylinder, slave cylinder, flywheel—just in case—clutch kit, hand cleaner, goop, towels…" Lily ran through the list. "Okay. Oh, transmission fluid!" she laughed.

The clerk stopped checking off the list on the screen. "'scuse me?"

"Automatic transmission fluid," she said. The rack was off to the side; she grabbed a half gallon bottle and added it to the pile.

"For _this_ job?"

"Uh-huh," she said agreeably.

He ran his finger down the screen. "No," he said politely. "You want gear oil."

"_No_," she said, equally politely. "She said automatic transmission fluid. It's a front wheel drive."

"That means nothing. A _manual_ transmission does _not_ use automatic fluid."

"She said it does."

A look of mild incredulity. "It doesn't. It _can't_."

Lily and I looked at each other uncertainly. She's able to work on cars, but needs direction. (She's still better than I am.) "Um…" I wavered.

Lily pulled out her cell phone and dialed. "Shoot. Voice mail." She looked at the bottle of gear oil the clerk had brought up. "We _could_ buy them both," she said doubtfully.

"It's either buy both and return one or buy one and have a fifty-fifty of having to come back."

The clerk looked toward his left at the older man checking out the first line of customers. He shook his head and shrugged. "Hey, Rachel!" the clerk called toward the back. "You ever hear of a _manual transmission_ that needs _automatic fluid_?"

From the short line behind us I heard two guys snicker in what was clearly a _What dumb Doras! Automatic transmission fluid in a manual car!_ moment. Rachel called out, "Whuck?" (the customer service friendly version of "WTF?").

"Automatic fluid!" He repeated.

"It's because it's a front wheel drive," Lily started to say and her phone chirped.

_Mommy Ev is greasy. She wants to know if there is a difficulty with the parts?_

Lily's thumbs flew as she sent back a message. After a moment came a reply that made her make a quiet _snork_ noise. She smiled at the clerk. "Saturns are unusual cars. But she says we have a choice. It's either a clutch job—including automatic transmission fluid… Or the clutch is possessed, and can only be cured by the ritual sacrifice of a know-it-all greasemonkey and substituting his blood for the missing fluid." She smiled at the line behind us. "Any volunteers?"

The two guys—father and son, it looked like—looked at each other uncertainly.

"Ducky said he can use the gear oil, go ahead and get it."

"Tommy…?" Our clerk looked up at the voice from the back. "Come here a sec…?"

"Be right back."

Lily and I nodded; the guys behind us were still giving us hesitant looks. "She was joking," I said with a patient half-sigh. (Maybe.)

Tommy came back with a chastened look. "Uh—Rachel looked it up online." His look included the do-it-yourselfers who had snickered derisively. "Manual Saturns can take automatic transmission fluid," he said formally.

A moment of silence.

"Are you _shitting_ me?" the father behind us said, stunned. Tommy shook his head slowly and spread his hands in a "beats me" gesture.

When we checked the receipt later on, he rang up the transmission fluid as "customer service" with a zero charge. Nice.


	63. We Never Really Grow Up, We Only Learn

March, 2013

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><p><strong>We Never Really Grow Up, We Only Learn How To Act In Public.<strong>

We do the best we can, but the kids' area of the store is usually a disaster. Some kids look at it as, 'pfft, it's not _my_ room, I don't care.' Others are so stunned at allllllll those books, they just go a little berserk. And some are just born mischief-makers.

But there are others who go the opposite way. Before I put her on the part-time payroll, Charlie would sit down and straighten, organize and alphabetize the books; when Lexi had her a-b-c's down pat (_after_ she learned how to read, making her teachers nuts), Charlie subcontracted the kids' section and worked on the rest of the store. When I stumbled over the arrangement, I almost stopped it, but figured there was such a pleasant echo of Huck Finn to it—what the heck. And if she could hire the kid at fifty cents an hour and they were both happy with the agreement, why not?

Having kids around the store while I was pregnant was… educational, to say the least. At least ten times a day, I decided I didn't want anything to do with this parenting thing—after birth, I was going to toss the kid to Ducky and run for the hills.

(Clearly, I decided otherwise.)

So, here I sit in the old rocker, E. L. Koningsburg's _From The Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler _on my lap and blowups of the illustrations around me, and a flock of kids jammed hip to hip on the floor. "Okay! Last week we finished—"

"_**STUART LITTLE!**_"

I smiled through my wince. Damn, they could project. "Right. _Stuart Little_. So that means—" I held up the book and showed off the cover. "We have a _new_ book today! This is called _From The Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler._" (One of my favorite authors, one of my favorite books. Okay, okay—I say that about a lot of books. It just so happens that a lot of books are my favorite books. So, there.) "But—my heavens! Looking around, I see a _lot_ of new faces! Welcome, _everyone_! How about a real quick roll call—when I point my wooden spoon toward you, please tell everyone your name. Let's start with the front row, that-a-way—" I drew a line from my left to my right. "—then the next row—" Back again, right to left. "And so forth. Okay…" I pointed the spoon to the first child, a stout lad of about five in a Barney t-shirt.

"Kyle!" Next, a little girl barely a year older (and, from the way they had been snarking at one another, a sibling). "Darcy!" Down the row we went: "Shelby." "Michael." "Dawn." "Kristal." "Monique." "Paul." "Rene." "Mommy, you know my name!"

"Not everybody else, does, sweetie," I said, as everyone laughed.

"Oh." She nodded at the logic. "Okay. Lexi"

"Charlie." "Amy." "Liz." "Tony!" Up and down we went. I lost track after fifty.

"Fantabulous! Welcome, everyone, old and new to Story Time!" Applause and cheers. Great for your ego, and even better when you realize the kids are applauding books and reading. (Insert moment of happy dance.) "Now, before—" I got distracted by a slightly frenetic looking woman hurrying to the group, a disheveled little boy at the end of her grasp. "Plenty of time," I said. "Don't forget to grab your snack."

She looked at me doubtfully, but saw that all the other kids were slurping on juice or milk boxes and munching on cookies, crackers or trail mix, and grabbed a setup for her son.

"We were all just introducing ourselves because we have _so many_ new faces." I had never seen either of them in the store before. "I'm Miss Sandy. What's your name?"

He craned his neck this way and that, but couldn't get an angle and finally gave in and stood up. "I'm Jimmydoe."

From the second row, Charlie gave me a puzzled look. Good; I wasn't the only one who didn't quite catch it. "I'm sorry, dear, I didn't hear that clearly. Could you repeat your name? Please?" Belatedly I saw his mother's face. She was at about level six mortification in the D & D game.

He stood up straighter. "I'm Jimmy Don't!"

I had a sudden cascade of scenarios. "Jimmy, don't touch that! Jimmy, don't eat that! Jimmy, don't climb there!" I gave him my game smile. "Well, welcome to Story Time, Jimmy—"

He grinned and plopped down onto the floor—straight on top of the half-finished juice box of his neighbor. As apple juice made for uncomfortable seating arrangements for a few kids scrambling out of the way, I wondered how many years it would be until Jimmy Don't became plain ol' Jimmy. At that moment he accidentally mashed a peanut butter cookie under his heel as he got out of the puddle of juice… I figured college. Maybe.


	64. Friends Help You Move

_Along with #63, dedicated to "Jimmy Don't" McA._

March, 2008

* * *

><p><strong>Friends Help You Move.<br>****Real Friends Help You Move Bodies.**

Friends "do things" for friends.

"You've got a van. Could you help me move?"  
>"Are you busy the first week of March? Can you housesit for me?"<br>"I'm getting married next August, I _swear_ the bridesmaid's dress isn't as bad as the last time!"  
>"Uh, could you loan me five hundred bucks? Just until I can get to the ATM? And—could you pick me up at the police station?"<br>"I'm at work, I can't leave and I'm _starving_. If you fly, I'll buy!"

"Oh, god, will you come visit my mother-in-law with me?"

I blinked. "Pardon?"

When I first bought Papyrus from Tim and Phil, I inherited one part-time employee (all I needed—and all I could afford): Beth-Rose Pearce, home ec teacher, collector of Dark Shadows memorabilia, New York Times crossword puzzle aficionado and a treasure trove for recipes of every stripe. She only stayed for another year (she needed the extra cash to pay for a kickass kitchen remodel) but remained a loyal customer from there on out.

She's also a widow. Her husband, Tad, died a couple of years ago, and until he passed away his mother was the bane of his existence. She was the queen of passive-aggressive manipulation, subtle backstabbing and flat-out fibs; Beth-Rose worked her ass off for over 40 years keeping peace in the nation until her monster-in-law said the wrong thing at the wrong time and Tad "sawed off her corner of the table" as my grandfather would have put it. This time he wasn't going to roll over and apologize (again) when he was the injured party (again), though he knew that Beth-Rose would keep in minimal contact out of self-preservation. Beth-Rose continued to sign both their names to cards and gift tags (not that they got anything in return)… and then Tad woke up one morning saying he felt like he had been drowning all night. She badgered him into going to the doctor… but the damage was already too extensive. Congestive heart failure. Pick an organ, pick a system, it was starting to fail. They did what they could, kept him alive another month, but at the end it was comfort care.

Beth-Rose was in a silent panic. Mommy Dearest had held tight to her snit fit, refusing to admit she was way out of line. She had been in a care facility for several years; nothing terminal, just a lot of chronic problems and the inability to care for herself, and was sometimes as mentally shaky as my own mother-in-law. As much of a biotch as she had been, Beth-Rose was worried that telling her Tad was dead—and she could therefore never make peace with him—might be the end of things. And she just wouldn't risk that. So, after talking things over with her sister-in-law, Phoebe, they decided to use a little subterfuge. The staff was told to keep Tad's death under wraps, and Beth-Rose continued to carefully include his name on cards and letters.

I had met Mrs. Grinnell once. Once was enough. More than enough. If she had come into the store again, I would have pointed to the "we reserve the right to refuse service to anyone" sign and kicked her out. Happily. "I thought Feebs usually went with you as bodyguard."

Beth-Rose nodded. "She's in the hospital." I gasped. "No, no, it's fine," she hastily reassured me. "Her doctor realized she hadn't had _this_ test in over five years, _that_ test in more than ten, and a whole slew of things she had _never_ had done. So she's camped out for the next few days, getting everything tested from hairline to toenails."

"Joy." Still, better than visiting Mommy Dearest. I knew better than to ask if either of Beth's kids would go; once they were at the age where they could see that how grandma treated their dad made her lavish gifts suspect of being bribes (they were, they were), they spent as little time in her presence as possible. They'd only go out if they could dope her oatmeal. And Phoebe had heard, "Just wait, someday you'll have children of your own and you'll appreciate me because they'll be JUST like YOU!" too many times and never even married because of it. (So she claimed. I think it was because she enjoyed being the crazy cat lady of the block too much.)

"It's her birthday next week," Beth-Rose sighed. "I'm bringing her an Agatha Christie omnibus—though the nurses say everything she reads is a 'new' book."

"Yeah. Victoria 'meets' new neighbors all the rime. Sure," I said, resisting the temptation to sigh. "When?"

"Tomorrow?" she asked hopefully. "Soonest started, soonest done?"

"Fine by me." I'd see if Ducky had any knockout drops in his bag. For Mrs. Grinnell… or for us. Either way would be good.

/ / /

My smile was frozen to my face.

Twenty minutes. It felt like twenty hours, twenty _days_. No matter how Beth-Rose tried to gently distract her mother-in-law, all she wanted to do was dish dirt on everyone: the staff, her daughter, the grandchildren who never came to visit (No, really?), her succession of roommates (can't _imagine_ why nobody wants to stay with her)… but all said in the sweetest of tones. Of one nurse: "She's such a nice girl, if only she didn't wear so much makeup, it makes her look like a streetwalker." Of me: "I don't remember you being so plump. But it makes your face so round and pretty, dear."

Beth-Rose was clearly ready to go, but trying to stay long enough that she wouldn't stir up the Wrath of Khan—Connie, I mean. She nodded a lot, said, "Mm-hmm" in the appropriate places and I knew she was looking forward to a good stiff drink when she got home. It was after 5pm _somewhere_ in the universe.

I saw a puzzled look flicker across her eyes. "I'm sorry Connie," she said carefully. (Mrs. Grinnell had made it clear that _only_ her son and daughter were to call her Mom. It took a decade before she let Beth-Rose call her "Connie.") "I didn't hear that clearly?"

"I _knew_ you weren't listening," she said piteously. (I made a mental note to do something special with Victoria that weekend. Something. _Anything_. Anything she wanted.) "I wanted to know if it was a _nice_ funeral."

She missed the 'ruh-roh, Shaggy' look I shot Beth-Rose. "Funeral?" Beth repeated.

"Thaddius's funeral," she sighed dolefully.

_Oh, Shaggy, we're in deep voodoo doodoo, aren't we?_

"Well…" Beth-Rose hedged. (There hadn't _been_ a funeral. Tad considered them 'barbaric' and opted to have his body donated to a med school, followed by a cremation. No funeral; a crowd of us had a wake, got merrily drunk and told 'remember the time' stories until the wee hours.) "It was very nice," she lied.

"Did they read the twenty-third psalm? It was his favorite." (It was _her_ favorite. Tad was an agnostic-sliding-to-atheist.) Beth-Rose nodded. "And did they sing 'Amazing Grace?'" Another nod. (Close enough. It was somewhere on the CD of bagpipe music playing in the background.)

After several minutes of nudging, Beth-Rose figured out that Mommy Dearest had known for a while that Tad was gone; someone on the staff had let it slip. (Or maybe told her flat out when they got tired of her Queen Bee act, just to rattle her cage.)

"It's sad," she sighed, when Beth-Rose asked her how she felt. "I would have _liked_ to be there… but I can't leave here easily, and nobody wants to drive me anywhere." (Got it in one guess.) "And children should never die before their parents. But it's a good thing. Now he's with Jesus and his Aunt Emily and Uncle Jerome and his Daddy…" She sighed again, and I actually felt a little sorry for her. Her gaze fell on Beth-Rose and her eyes lit up to about 500 watts like she'd gotten a sudden message from the beyond. "You can be with him very soon if you want!"

We didn't drive over 20 mph the whole way back.


	65. Si Hoc Legere Scis Nimium Eruditionis

March, 2013

* * *

><p><strong>Si Hoc Legere Scis Nimium Eruditionis Habes<br>****(If You Can Read This, You Are Over-Educated)**

"How do you feel about teaching Sunday School for a month?" Ducky bit back a laugh at my look (clearly one of horror). "I guessed as much. I told Fr. Parker _I'd_ be glad to help out. One of the teachers is having her hip replaced, she'll be out for a few weeks."

"When?"

"This March."

I did some fast calculating. "All March?" He nodded. "Easter?" I squeaked. He nodded again. "What teacher?"

"Harriett Andreas." As if I didn't recognize the name, he added, "Alexandra's class."

I winced. My mother was a substitute teacher all the time I was in school. She carefully avoided assignments if Ray or I were in the class, but sometimes it slipped up in the office and mom was in front of the room when he or I walked in. I love my mother and loved her even then—but it made for a _lonnnnnnnng_ day.

But maybe it wouldn't be that bad. Sunday School. Ducky, beloved adopted uncle to so many children, full of stories and tales. Room full of squirrely four year olds. Parents nearby in the church.

Who am I kidding? He's toast.

As room mother for Lexi's Sunday School class, it was my responsibility to make sure the snack for the class was kept stocked. We had flats of milk and juice cartons in the parish hall kitchen and big jars of animal crackers and cheese crackers locked in the classroom. I'd make sure to send a thermos full of Earl Gray tea for Ducky. Or maybe Scotch.

The first weekend wasn't bad. ("Are ye gonna help?" Fr. Parker asked as I dashed by the office with the fresh snacks. "Are you kidding?" I called back. "We stopped at one kid because I don't want to be outnumbered!") For the most part the kids play games as they would in any other preschool; for about 20 minutes they sit and talk about stories from the bible or what's going on in the church. Since Lent had only been in gear a couple of weeks, the first Sunday Ducky subbed they discussed what everyone was giving up for Lent and how they were doing. A lot of kids had given up candy and were struggling with it. Bad choice. Okay, I understand the concept of sacrifice—but kids? Candy? Heading into Easter? Get real. I tried it first and second grade and wised up by third grade; I gave up playing jacks. I was the jacks champ of third grade; giving it up was almost as hard as giving up candy. My brother always volunteered to give up homework.

The second Sunday, Mother got it into her head to go to church, so Ducky drove in with Lexi for the 8:00 service and I brought Mother for the 9:30 service while Ducky was wrangling four-year-olds in the classroom. We stopped by to help put things back in order before heading home. Ducky looked tired and I told him so.

"They're very… energetic," he admitted. "And many of them are new to coming to church, so there's quite a bit of ground to cover."

I gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I'm sure you're doing a marvy job. Why don't you take a short nap before lunch?" (He slept through until half past one.)

The next week was even worse. "One dear little girl has her holidays totally mixed up," he said while I ran the carpet sweeper in the classroom. Harriett Andreas doesn't allow cookies to be ground into the carpet, but Harriett Andreas has also been teaching Sunday School since before the Old Testament was written and runs her classroom as a gentle dictatorship. "She asked if Easter was somebody's birthday."

"Recent convert?"

"I believe so. And another lad piped up, 'No, that's when Jesus got reincarnated!'"

I laughed. "Welcome to Comparative Religion 1-A."

"I'm just worried Fr. Parker will think _I_ taught them these things."

"I doubt it."

The next week was pure chaos. As room mother, I was overseer of the Easter egg dying bonanza. Each kid wore a smock of a worn out shirt from a parent, we put plastic gloves on them and taped them in place, but they still went home wearing all colors of the rainbow. But they each had half a dozen nifty colored eggs to take home and hunt the next weekend.

One week to go. For Easter treats we opted for tiny Easter baskets. While the eggs were drying, the kids took strawberry baskets, decorated them with foam cutouts and tied yarn handles to them, filled them with plastic grass. Ducky and I would fill them Saturday night before Easter (fortunately, we had no food allergies in the group that would need working around) and put them out on the table right before class.

I couldn't leave my poor, defenseless husband alone with a room full of sugared-up preschoolers (I know they would have grabbed fistfuls of stuff from their baskets at home; duh) any more than I would have left him alone to oversee the dying of twelve dozen eggs the weekend before. Lily, Ev and Charlie sat with Mother during Easter service while I helped Ducky keep 24 kids from running amok (and I said to myself over and over, _God, I'm glad I don't do this for a living_).

We managed to bring them down to the ground long enough to sit for the lesson. I had to gently drag one little boy back from his basket four times, but finally he settled down. Ducky had just gotten to the 'on the third day, they rolled the stone back from the tomb' part of the story, and he noticed one young girl on the edge of the group who looked like she was burning brain cells from the frown of concentration on her face. "Ashley, do you have a question?" Ducky asked.

She thought for a long moment, then blurted out: "What if he was only was just pass out, and he woke up and an' got a ride home like my brother las' night?"

Ducky's jaw dropped slightly. "Ah—that is—I—ah—"

Before he could gather his wits, another voice piped up, "No, he saw his shadda and we gots a long winner!"

So far Jesus has been reincarnated, passed out drunk and turned into a groundhog. I know Jim Parker won't blame Ducky… but I'm betting Ducky doesn't volunteer to teach Sunday School for a long, _long_ time.


	66. Education Is When You Read The Fine

March 2012

* * *

><p><strong>Education Is When You Read The Fine Print, Experience Is What You Get When You Don't. (Pete Seeger)<strong>

**/\/\/\/\**

_*****Easter Bake Sale! Contributions Needed!*****_

look! +++ "_**Five Fridays in a Month" Cupcake Festival Next Week! **_+++ look!

_**May Day Bake Sale! Cookies! Cakes! Cupcakes! Candy! What can you make with flowers or butterflies or spring themes? Call Joanie Churchill to donate!**_

_**|||| Halloween Festival! What Ghoulish Goodies Can You Donate? ||||**_

**/\/\/\/\**

If there is ever a shortage of exclamation marks…head to your local grade school. Some room mother has used more than her share, that's all.

When Lexi was in preschool, they regulated what the kids could bring in their snack boxes—but they would have a bake sale at the drop of a hat. You aren't allowed to bring a mini Milky Way in your box—but, man, are we gonna soak you for boxes of caramel popcorn and pink and purple cupcakes after school.

After kindergarten it was harder to regulate what went to school; the kindergarteners ate their snack in the middle of the morning (or afternoon, for the afternoon session kids) and it was in the classroom. If you sent something to school that was not on the approved list… you and the teacher had a chat after school. From first grade on, all the kids were in the cafeteria and it was impossible to keep on top of who brought what. The best they could do was make the rule for the classroom—birthday treats could be non-food or, if food, non-sweet. No cake, no ice cream, no candy. (No fun.) We couldn't even bring in trail mix—no peanuts, either. But they would throw a bake sale at the drop of a hat. And I was an easy touch for making or buying goodies—so was Ducky.

Lexi was our able assistant. From an early age, she helped out scraping mixing bowls, cutting out cookies, licking beaters. As she got older and mastered her numbers, we started factoring her into the process more and more. But in the beginning, in preschool… it was pretty basic.

Sometimes it was _very_ basic.

"Cassandra…?"

Ducky sounded rather innocent. Rather _too_ innocent. "Yeah?" I yelled back. I was swapping out laundry in the basement; I had 28 minutes left on a batch of brownies in the oven, a chocolate cherry cake on the table was settling and the counter had stacked racks with frosted cookies hardening. I had everything timed to the nth degree.

"When is this bake sale?"

"Next couple of days! Why?"

"Not _just_ tomorrow…?"

I stopped wrestling Mother's lap quilt from the washer. I turned around and walked to the foot of the stairs. Hands on hips, I called out, "No, it's not _just_ tomorrow… Why?"

"Aaah—well…"

I made it into the kitchen in five seconds flat. When I ran downstairs, Lexi had been sitting at the breakfast table, happily coloring in her _Lion King _coloring book.

She wasn't coloring any more.

"Let me guess. You told her, 'Don't touch the cake.' Yes?"

I nodded dumbly.

"Well," he sighed. "She didn't _touch_ it…"

True dat. Her hands were clean. Her face, on the other hand, was covered in chocolate, cherry cream and whipped sugar frosting. I should have _never_ shown her the picture of her at three months, leaning out of the backpack, face covered in stolen chocolate.

Ducky worked on cleaning our daughter while I cleaned up the table. If I cut the cake in half, we could salvage enough for our dessert—and I'd just start on a replacement after dinner. "We're gonna have to work on 'spirit of the law versus the letter of the law,'" I muttered.

Ducky snorted. "Good luck with that one. Most adults don't understand the concept, let alone follow it."

"You keep saying she's an exceptional child. We'll just make sure that's one of the exceptions!"


	67. A Lady Should Be Mentioned

February, 2012

* * *

><p>"<strong>A Lady Should Be Mentioned In A Newspaper Only Three Times: Birth, Marriage And Death."<br>**"**Let's Work On Number Three, Shall We?"**

It's a matter of statistics. As we get older, we attend more funerals, memorials and wakes (with the occasional, "Oh, my god, you're getting married _again_?!" thrown in for fun). One weekend we ferried Mother to _three_ services (it was a bad month in general). A lot of Kennel Club members have left us, a number of the old guard from church, and old timers from her long defunct bridge club or gardening group.

Because her memory is like a steel sieve, we have a tendency to go to any service for which she gets a notice; she might remember them, she might not, what the hell, we'll go. (One time we had the awkward moment of Mother greeting the sister of the deceased with, "Good heavens, I thought it was _your_ funeral!") Mother often went home with ideas for her own funeral (Ducky and I both came away with the conviction that a nice, rowdy wake sounded better than the traditional services); I wouldn't go so far as to say 'a good time was had by all,' but things generally went off pleasantly.

February 9, 2012 brought us the bad news that Kay Tracey, former president of the Corgi Kennel Club (1979 through 1986, 1988 through 1991 and 1996 through 2005) had gone to the rainbow bridge to meet up with Princess, Puffball, Jinxy, Amelia Earhart, Professor Bumbles and some thirteen other Corgis and other dogs, a slew of cats, birds, fish and two boa constrictors named Bonnie and Clyde (Kay was definitely an animal nut). The service was slated for that Saturday.

The funeral had close to 300 people in attendance; the reception even more. One after another, people stood to tell tales of Kay—always sweet, never malicious, and invariably involving pets or animals or some sort. (She also had a potbellied pig at one point, and a baby llama. Glad she didn't live next door—not to speak ill of the dead.)

At the reception, we offered our condolences to Kay's children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren (her husband having shuffled off this mortal coil some twenty years before) and parked Mother at a table in the corner and made sure one of both of us was ready at all times to get refreshments or run interference.

"Ohhhhh, _craaaaaaap_," I whispered, sucking in a breath. Ducky looked up, surprised. "Battle stations. Incoming, two o'clock."

Ducky turned ever so casually, and I saw his spine stiffen. He moaned faintly.

"Donald! Are you ill?"

"Just a touch of indigestion, Mother."

Indigestion—in the person of Emmaline Dickenson—was bearing our way like the Queen Mary. (An apt analogy—she was at least that old, almost that large and left uneasy waters in her wake.) Emmaline was bossy, bitchy and controlling, things that made her a great political news reporter, but not such a great mother—or, worse, mother-in-law. And therein lies the rub. Not long after moving to Virginia, Ducky met Emmaline's youngest daughter, they had a delightful romance—he didn't connect the two of them, since Dickenson was Emmy's professional (and maiden) name. Once he realized what a mother-in-law bullet he ducked, he was far more careful in his romantic encounters—but Emmaline held a grudge for her daughter's blighted romance and considered Mother a mortal enemy. (Never mind that her daughter didn't hold a grudge.)

HMS Emmaline sailed up to our table and stopped short. She looked at Mother, frowned faintly, looked at Ducky, frowned more… looked at me and became absolutely baffled. "Hello," I said cautiously.

"Hello." Her voice was equally uncertain. She looked around the table again. "It was a lovely service."

"Yes. Yes, it was," I agreed.

Another silence. "I don't know you."

No; I had heard everything secondhand. "No, you don't."

She looked from Ducky to Mother. "Do I know you?"

Uh-oh. Looks like Mother isn't the only one with a few fries missing from her happy meal. "Yes," Ducky said cautiously.

Mother gave her an irritated look. "_I_ don't know you."

"We aren't friends?" Emmaline pushed for confirmation.

Mother looked her most haughty. "No."

"Good. Let's keep it that way." Emmaline nodded decisively and sailed off.

* * *

><p>The title is from a conversation with my mother, who swore she overheard it at a party back in the late 30s. One has to wonder just what led up to that moment…<p> 


	68. Can You Top This? No--But Thank You

A/N: Thank you to Miss Jayne and Sara, whose "did I ever tell you...?" tales in the same week or so snowballed into _this_... and to all my friends and family over the years who inadvertantly contributed to the tale. The payoff check is in the mail.

December 16, 2011

* * *

><p><strong>Can You Top This?<br>****No—But Thank You For Some **_**Fabulous**_** Blackmail Ideas!**

Sleepovers are not just for children.

Lily, Ev and Charlie are at the house at least two out of four weekends a month. Mother's right-hand-gal, Suzy, will often stay if she knows we have plans and it would be helpful to have two more eyes on a very sneaky old lady—and she does it off the clock, out of the goodness of her heart. ("For food," she says. "You guys know how to cook!")

But if there's a birthday or holiday or reason to celebrate, we frequently end up with one, two or more members of the NCIS extended family bunking on the floor as well. On rare occasion, we even have their fearless leader in attendance. (For some reason, Tony DiNozzo pushes his frat boy persona more when Gibbs is there. There's some game being played, but damned if I know what it is.)

We normally hold a Christmas dinner for any and all, and this year was no exception. We were also hosting a pre-Christmas party for any and all and then some, a tradition started the year we were married. It involved a_ lot_ of work—but it was also a _lot_ of fun. And we had a whole crew in residence, ready to help in the morning; the only ones missing from NCIS were Jimmy Palmer (he had a new wife to be with, after all) and the director, Leon Vance (I'd met him a couple of times and found him to be polite, but reserved; Ducky said Mrs. Vance and the kids would have had a ball joining us, but it was a package deal—if Leon didn't go, nobody went). So, with Lexi tucked (reluctantly) in bed, our living room was scattered with people at ten past nine Friday night—in addition to Ducky, Mother and me, we had Lily, Ev, Charlie (who would be joining Lexi soon, but was busy getting some homework assistance), McGee (who was helping Charlie), Abby (who was kibitzing the homework help), Ziva, DiNozzo, Gibbs and our Mother-wrangler, Suzy. The homework contingent was at the loveseat; the rest of us were huddled around the coffee table, playing a smackdown game of double deck gin rummy (including Mother, darn it; nobody else stands a chance if she's in the game).

Conversations floated around like early morning mist. "Okay. Physics has its basis in mathematics. Remember back in trig—"

No, Tim, I don't. That's why _I'm_ not helping Charlie with her homework and why you and Abby _are_.

"Gin!" Mother was running true to form, she had won about 75% of the games so far.

"If I knew of a casino where they played gin, we could clean up," Suzy sighed good-naturedly. She tallied our losses, shuffled and re-dealt.

"It could be worse," Ziva said. "Backgammon, for example."

I once heard Ziva say Mother was the immediate reincarnation of an old man from Israel. No particular old man, just one of the many who sit in the corner of a café with his cronies, playing backgammon and moving pips before the dice have fully stopped. I had seen this talent at a folk dance café, men who drove wives there to dance and hung out playing backgammon 'til they went home. What amazed me more than the ability was that _not once_ did a player say, "Hey, jerk, you moved a four, it was a one!" Mother waits until the dice stop (the moving spots make her dizzy), but she has her pips moved within two seconds. She no longer played chess, but Ducky said she wiped up the floor with him until the past fifteen years. And they stopped playing bridge—well, _she_ had to stop—because her temper would get the best of her and opponents stopped being tolerant of her spitting at them. "True. Or canasta. You think she's good at gin rummy?"

"Anybody want more pie?" Gibbs ended up bringing back a whole pie, a stack of paper plates and a handful of forks.

"I don't understand." Ziva gave DiNozzo a puzzled look.

He sighed. "It was a _joke_."

"I _still_ do not understand."

"Never mind."

"—they never did figure out who did it."

Gibbs looked up sharply. "Abs?"

Abby peered around McGee. "Yeah?"

"Figure out who did _what_?"

"Oh." She clapped a hand over her mouth and giggled, turning faintly pink. "It was just—well—"

Suzy, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor smack between the homework group and the card players (the woman is far too limber to be the age she claims to be; there are times I want to hate her), grinned. "Just tales of high school pranks. Like when we left a dog collar and the tag _Teacher's Pet_ in the locker of the biggest brown-noser on campus."

Gibbs looked at Abby expectantly. "Oh?" He settled back in his chair.

With a resigned sigh, Abby said, "It's not that big a deal. We had a kind of rivalry with Rosedale High. And right before Homecoming… _someone_… wrote 'Rosedale High Eats Genetically Altered Worms' on the front lawn. In sodium metal," she added, when we gave her a few, 'And?' looks.

I don't remember much about my chem classes, but, thanks to _MacGyver_ reruns, I do know what happens to sodium metal when it has water—such as from lawn sprinklers—applied to it. I laughed. "That's a good one."

"Burned it all the way to the ground," Abby said cheerfully, taking pity on phys ed major DiNozzo.

"And you were the ringleader?" Gibbs asked mildly.

"No…. just the technical consultant."

"You would have liked the party the physics club threw one year," McGee said. "Big bowl of colored ice cubes… with Mentos frozen inside."

After a minute, Abby grinned. "Bottles of soda instead of a punch bowl?"

"Yep."

"Could we get more details for the non-geeks?" DiNozzo complained.

"The colored ice would mask the fact that there was something hidden inside. You've seen the YouTubes where people dropped Mentos into 2-liter bottles of soda?" Tim said semi-patiently. DiNozzo nodded. "Well, once the ice melts, makes contact with the soda…" He threw his hands out in a "whoosh" gesture.

"Aaaah," Tony said, nodding.

"Who cleaned the floor?" Ziva asked with a laugh.

"That would be… all of us," he said ruefully. "They all melted close to the same time."

I drew a king of clubs, melded with the queen and jack and discarded a three of hearts. "We did a 'fun with food' prank in a little theatre group I belonged to back in college," I said. "We were doing _A Bad Year For Tomatoes_—"

"A _what_?" Ducky laughed.

"That was the title. Lightweight comedy. Well, one character kept hitting a bottle of booze—bourbon, I think—and we were supposed to use iced tea for the prop."

Gibbs (the only bourbon drinker I know) grinned. "You replaced it with the real thing?"

"Oh, my god, we didn't _dare_.She had to drink the whole bottle through the play, she'd've been flat on her ass. No—we replaced it with soda pop." I grinned in response. "Vernor's."

Half the group laughed, the other half looked blank. "Vernor's ginger ale is _not_ like Canada Dry," I explained. "Canada Dry, Schwepp's—they're all just carbonated water that had ginger flavoring walk past. Vernor's used to be aged for years in oak barrels—literally, years. Strangers to the taste would get sneezing fits from the bubbles, watery eyes, choking—"

"And you _drank_ this? On _purpose_?" Ziva marveled.

"Oh, it's good stuff, _great_ stuff! You can still get it—it's good, not as strong as it used to be… But Teri had been a real pill the whole time, so we…knocked her down a peg."

"How did she get through her scenes?" Charlie marveled.

"Gotta give her credit. Her eyes watered like she was walking through the manure aisle at Home Depot, but she didn't blow one line. Not easy, with that stuff."

"They probably had to change the formula because of the Chemical Warfare Act," Abby laughed.

"Someone pranked the All Hallow's Eve party at St. Basil's," Mother sighed. She was following the conversation. Yea, Mom! She took the 6 of spades Gibbs had discarded and looked smug.

"Mother, we go to St. Anne's," Ducky said quietly.

She gave him an irritated look. "I know that! When you were—six. No, seven!"

Ducky was puzzled for a moment, then looked thunderstruck. "Good heavens! The apples!" He leaned over slightly. "How in the world did she remember _that_?"

"We all brought treats for the party. I made gingerbread." (The woman's gingerbread is the stuff dreams are made on.) "We never discovered _who_ the guilty party was," she said darkly. "But _someone_ brought caramel coated apples."

Only Ducky didn't look confused. He was grinning. "Why would that be bad, Victoria?" Suzy asked. "The caramel apples?" she prompted, when Mother looked lost.

"Oh! Because someone used onions instead of apples."

There was a chorus of, "Euuuuu!" "Gross!" "Blech!" and "Dis_gus_ting."

"Beats the beer keg," Gibbs said with a small laugh.

"You substitute Coors for the Heinekin?" Ev teased.

He thought for a moment then decided to go for it. "Nah. Back in basic, there was this—" a quick glance and the realization Charlie was still in the room. "—_jerk._ He and some of his buddies didn't get the Semper Fi/we are a unit/we are _one_ y'know… Real grade-A, brass-plated, award-winning a-holes. Anyway, you hit 21, the unit throws a keg party. Sooooo…. We had one keg for our 'special guests' and one for everyone else. About halfway through, they were feelin' real good, we added a 'special ingredient' to the rest of the keg."

"Cayenne pepper?" Abby guessed.

"Nope." Gibbs smirked. "Ipecac."

Even Charlie knew the name. "What a waste of good beer," DiNozzo said.

"Oh, yeah," Gibbs agreed. "More ways than one. They kept drinking, throwing up, getting dehydrated from throwing up, drinking more beer… Oh—gin."

Mother looked miffed. I tallied scores and looked at her hand; she was one card away from going out.

"Revenge. A dish best served cold," Lily intoned.

"With beer," I added. I shuffled and dealt. Ten cards, all crap.

"Ah, revenge," Evelyn sighed. "Creativity at its best."

"You got creative revenge on someone?" Gibbs waggled his beer bottle at her.

"Wellllll… _I_ didn't do it," she said, with a glance toward Charlie. "But… I had a high school teacher who had, uh, issues with administration. So. Among other things, he ran the debate team, the speech class, the academic decathlon team… They had a weekend thing in New York, speech and debate, and the ac-dec class went along as a lesson in being on the other side of the microphone, tips on how they probably look up there. When they came back on Monday, every… single… student… was late 20 minutes on Monday. They all had a photocopied note from Mr. Dowthright. Each note said the closing dinner left a number of people with digestive problems that might carry over to the morning and to please excuse any tardiness associated with this problem." She grinned smugly.

"I am lost," Ziva admitted.

"Okay. The front office gets kids that trickle in through the morning. Back then, if you were under 15 minutes tardy, you didn't have to bring a note. You'd just get marked tardy, but you still had to get a tardy slip to go to class. Over 15 minutes, it had to be processed with a signed note, and they had to actually fill out a form for each kid. So instead of the five or ten in a given ten minute span, they had over a hundred show up 20 minutes late. It took them all of first period and half of second to get caught up."

"The parents condoned this?" Ducky was mildly scandalized.

"Most of them. They were on his side; the new administration was—" Ev rolled her eyes. "Well, you can use your imagination. The first year, a third of the teaching staff transferred, retired or flat out quit. Mr. Dowthright didn't want to go down without a fight. So the parents either supported him in this—or didn't actively oppose him. That was my senior year," she sighed. "I hear the principal quit two years later, went into a cushy job on the Beltway."

"Sometimes karma isn't quite what we want," Lily said.

"Speaking of _kar-ma_…" Ev hinted. Lily looked at her blankly. "Hsst." Ev poked Lily in the arm. "Tell 'em about the bug."

She still looked mystified. "Bug?"

"The VW?"

Lily's face cleared. "Oh!" She hitched her chair around so that she could face both groups. "Okay, this is one of those, 'If I go down, I'm taking lots of company with me' stories," she said with a grin.

"Sounds good already," I said.

"Well, we were never _sure_ who did this—but I know that was the year the Marx brothers graduated. They had spent four years pulling pranks and pushing rules. Supposedly at the faculty meeting toward the end of the year, the principal said, 'This is the year Rich and Neal Marx graduate from Musgrave High. If there is _any instructor _who is thinking of holding them back a year… I want to see you in my office. Immediately!'" We laughed at her impression. "So. I was in high school—I was a freshman—we had two art teachers. One did the Commercial Art, Photography, Yearbook, Print Shop, all that stuff. The other teacher did the Stagecraft, Set Construction—_and_ all the beginning art classes. And he _hated_ the beginning art classes."

I thought back to my one year of teaching and couldn't help but sympathize a little.

"Those classes were _so_ regimented. And it was a requirement: one semester of art, one of music, two more of your own choosing. Unless you already had an art background and passed the juried screening for the upper levels, you were stuck with Mr. Symons for at least half a year. Well, Mr. Symons was… unique. Pushed the dress code right to the line, wore a lot of stuff that would pass for garb. Still had fairly long, hippie-type hair, wore smoked glasses—would have had a pipe if it were a college campus. Wore a shark's tooth hanging from one ear." She fllicked a finger against her right earlobe. "Drove… a VW bug he hand-painted with _Starry, Starry Night_." Her eyes twinkled.

"I'm guessing the vehicle in question plays a prominent role in the tale?" Ducky asked. He was sitting next to me on the couch and I could see the barely repressed grin out of the corner of my eye.

"Oh, _yeah_. So. As I said, Mr. Symons _hated_ teaching the Art 1 classes, and the feeling was mutual. He had spent his own high school years dreaming of being the biggest, hippest set designer on Broadway. Broadway didn't want him—at _all_. The closest he could get was Musgrave High."

Ev clearly knew the story and was grinning like a jack-o-lantern. Lily is far more detail-oriented than the rest of us.

"We still don't—well, _I_ still don't know who did it. Not for sure. But all spring all the drama and stagecraft and music students were on campus on the weekends. We were doing _Guys and Dolls_ as our spring musical. We worked every weekend—I earned enough points just in that one semester to make it into the Thespian Society. I worked props, costumes, makeup—big cast, lots of costumes. Not enough time during the class during the week. So. That one Saturday we broke at five, went out to the parking lot—and Mr. Symons' car was _gone_."

"Someone boosted his car?" Suzy asked in a polite "so what?" tone.

"Oh, no. Much better than that." Lily tried again to bite back a grin. "Think Hansel and Gretel. There was a trail of crumbs—jelly beans, actually, so the birds wouldn't steal the trail. The ants, on the other hand… Well. So. He followed it back across campus—and we followed him following the trail—all the way to his classroom. The art rooms all had sliding patio doors to move banners, panels, equipment… Someone picked the lock, cleared a path to the layout table, got his bug up on the table… _hotwired the car_, left it running, locked the patio door, went out through the main door—and used a slip wire to pull the deadbolt." She threw out her hands. "Ta-daa!"

Ducky laughed. "A classic locked room mystery."

"How did they figure out the doors?" Gibbs asked.

"The slip wire broke. The picked lock was kind of obvious, too."

"Okay—but how the heck could they get the car up on top of the table?" DiNozzo groused.

"A VW bug? Lead pipe cinch," Charlie said offhandedly.

"Rolled it up on planks," Abby suggested.

"Or just picked it up," Charlie added, concentrating on the physics equation Tim had been breaking down. She finally looked up, sensing our stares. "Yes?"

"Something you want to share with the class?" Ev asked.

"Sure." Charlie pushed aside her physics textbook. "Do you recall the last year I went to summer camp?" We all nodded; she had decided to do double-back summer school the last couple of years. "There was one counselor who…" She pursed her lips and cocked her head at Gibbs. "…was a grade-A, brass-plated, award-winning a-hole."

"Charlie!" Ev and Lily chorused. Gibbs winced.

"She was," Charlie said mildly. "Her name was Madeline. She was known as 'Mad' for several reasons. She, too, drove a Volkswagon 'bug'—alas, not so artistically decorated. Merely red—slightly rusted, slightly faded, with old, unreadable bumper stickers. This was her first—and, as I hear it, last—summer. She was particularly unpopular with one counselor."

"What did she do, short-sheet her bunk?" DiNozzo laughed.

"No, slept with her fiancé," Charlie said without batting an eye. Ev and Lily exchanged stunned looks. This was apparently news to them. "So. At some point during the night… the other counselors _moved_ her vehicle." She gave us a sly smile. "Much like Mommy's classmates, they picked it up, marched it off the parking area… and parallel parked it, placing it neatly between two trees. With, perhaps, half a foot clearance on each end."

"Nice." Gibbs nodded. "How long did it take her to get it out of there?"

Charlie grinned. "All… damned… day." Nobody reprimanded her for her language. We were all too busy laughing.

Gibbs nodded. "I can one-up that."

I drew and discarded; my hand was still garbage. "Serve it up, sunshine."

He smirked. "I won't say where or when, but… once upon a time, I was stationed at a base. One night I was pulling MP duty. There was one Master Sergeant who was… less than popular."

"Grade-A, brass-plated—" Charlie chirped.

"Yep, yep," he said quickly. "So we got a call about a stolen vehicle belonging to our favorite Master Sergeant. Searched everywhere that night. Found it in the morning in the light of day…" He tipped his head back. "'bout twenty-five feet up. Someone put some four-by-fours between a couple of Quonset huts, _wayyyy_ in the back of the base, where nobody went past sixteen-hundred, put Sergeant Coyne's Jeep _wayyyy_ up in the sky. They'd painted it pink, too. Looked real pretty up there."

Through our laughter, Ziva gasped, "How in the world did they get it _up_ there?"

"That… we never learned. Took 'em the better part of the week to get it down. Only took them a few hours to put it up. Talent." He took a hit off his beer. "Boy, was he pissed. Couldn't have happened to a more _deserving_ guy."

"That's the difference between a little prank and revenge," Abby said sagely. "People are willing to go all out for proper revenge." She had a sneaky smile on her puss.

"I have a feeling you have a tale of justified revenge in your carpetbag?" Ducky teased.

"One… or two," she nodded. "This one was during my grad student days. I lived off-campus, apartment complex rented mostly to students. Well, they'd rent to non-students, but nobody else would live there. It was mostly grad students, so it was _fairly_ quiet. Robert von Saulo was _such_ a—!" She broke off, but I had feeling the word rhymed with a particular type of paving stone. Two words, even. "Oh, he thought he was the greatest thing since time began, hottest thing with the women, too gorgeous to be a mere mortal, and the most brilliant mind to walk our hallowed halls. God forbid anyone disturb _him_. He would work on his doctoral every weekend and every night and you'd better not knock or call—but he would knock on _your_ door with the least provocation. So… we decided he needed an assistant." She smiled happily. "Took out an ad in the student paper, handed out business cards: 'research assistant needed, top pay, must apply in person, evenings and weekends only' and listed his apartment at the complex. He had at least ten 'applicants' an hour. Every one of them had to pass through the front door; someone would hang out in the lobby, we let them go in one at a time, and when they left, we told them what the deal was and gave them a pass for a free drink at The Library, the bar down the road. The owners had their own beef with Bobby, they were glad to front our payoff. Nobody spilled the beans. Bobby had made himself very, very unpopular over the years…"

"Definitely a difference between revenge and mere pranks," Ducky said laughing.

"Did you do either at school?" I asked sweetly.

"Of course! One—or two," he said, quoting Abby. He tipped his head. "The first one that comes to mind…" (First one?) "Back in fourth form, a school chum had the absurd idea of loosing piglets on the campus and I… assisted."

Gibbs snorted. "Why, Duck?"

Ducky spread his hands. "It seemed a good idea at the time. They were small, very agile. They ran all over hill and dale, driving the staff crazy. They couldn't keep up with them. We marked one with a number one, the second with the number two, the third—" He paused for a moment. "—with the number _four_." He waited while we looked at one another uncertainly. "It took them a week to find one, almost two more weeks to track down the second; after being loose for almost a month, the piglet numbered four got into the Headmaster's office and destroyed everything—but it was weeks before they gave up looking for the nonexistent piglet numbered three." We burst into snorts, snickers and giggles.

"Oh, _nice_!" McGee cried, laughing and even applauding.

"Sometimes subtlety is its best reward," Ducky said (just a teensy bit smugly). "We also spoofed someone for _months_. Let it be known that we were planning something so tremendous, so monstrous, he would be pranked as never before—all of this was rumor, mind you. Things he overheard, nothing said directly to him. As time went on, the threat loomed larger. He would have hidden in his flat all of April first, but he couldn't. He went around the whole day, waiting for _something_ to happen…" he said dramatically. He paused for a long moment. "And… nothing happened. _That_ was the prank. The ultimate in paranoia. The ultimate in subtlety."

"Oh, _we_ were _not_ subtle," McGee said, still laughing. "School choir. Christmas show, ninety-three, I think. I don't remember whose idea it was… but we were all in on it. We… added something to the show."

"Something… dirty?" DiNozzo asked hopefully.

"Not _exactly_…" McGee hedged. "We all learned an extra song, and when the last of the planned show was over, we started singing…" He looked around, smiled a bit, then, to the tune of "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen" sang: "_The restroom door said 'gentlemen' so I just walked inside, I took two steps and realized I'd been taken for a ride, I heard high voices, turned and found the place was occupied by two nuns, three old ladies and a nurse—what could be worse—than two nuns, three old ladies and a nurse_!"

He's got a decent voice—and it's a funny song. "Oh, my god, your choir director must have wanted to kill you!" Suzy said, finally catching her breath.

"He was so shocked, we got to the end of the song before he could get the stage director to drop the curtain. I'm just glad my dad missed the show," he said with a shake of his head.

DiNozzo winced. "Yeah, that would have been ugly. I went to a restaurant once, someone pulled off something like that. Put a triangle cutout of black tape over the legs so it looked like a skirt, put white tape on the skirt so it looked like pants. Whole bunch of pissed off people that night."

"Why'd'ja do it, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked laconically.

"Boss! Never!"

Ev pointed to DiNozzo, Tim, and Ducky. "That's prank." She pointed to Gibbs. "The waste of good beer—that was revenge." She smiled sweetly. "Then there's the 'I will make you so miserable' kind of revenge…"

"Isn't that why they invented divorce?" came Gibbs' affable drawl.

"One reason, anyway. You guys remember… Fabio?" she breathed dramatically. About half of us nodded.

"You got revenge on Fabio?" I teased.

"No—but a friend of ours was married to this total louse. Liar, cheat—big-time cheat—con-man—"

(Yeah, I dated some of those.)

"She wanted a divorce. He was dragging his heels about signing. They were both still living in the house; she wanted to sell and split the money, he wanted her to buy him out and she couldn't afford to."

"Sounds like your average divorce to me," Gibbs said with a wry look.

"Well, Mr. Wonderful had gorgeous hair that made Fabio look like squat. Gotta be honest, it was. And the women just fell all over themselves over it. He was three-quarter… Cherokee? Not sure. Coal black, straighter than the Bible Belt, longer than mine, _beautiful_ hair. And he knew it. Had this special shampoo, cost a bloody fortune, but it made his hair look like threads of silk…"

"You're wasting your talents. You should write purple prose romances," I suggested.

"Ha, ha. Julie doctored his shampoo rather like you doctored the beer keg." She nodded to Gibbs.

"She put Ipecac in his shampoo?" Charlie asked, puzzled.

Ev belatedly realized Charlie was still sitting there at the back of the group. She pointed and glowered. "If you repeat _anything_ you've heard tonight—"

"I know, I know, you'll sell my body for my mineral rights—about twelve bucks on the open market right now, if I estimate correctly."

"You need a new line," Lily murmured.

"I can tell. No, not Ipecac." Ev looked around the group and smiled slowly. "Nair."

"Oh, that is _evil_," Ziva said. She waggled her eyebrows and grinned. "I like it."

"Mind you, this was right after her "Psycho" trick," Lily added.

"Psycho?" I asked.

"Yeah. He went off boozing and carousing one weekend, came home stinking drunk, got in the shower—and started screaming like he was being murdered. Which he thought he was. Julie went down to the magic shop, got some blood capsules, put them in the showerhead. Water melted the gel caps, 'blood' comes pouring out—and he was so drunk, he thought it was coming from him. Darn near broke his head on the tub rim getting out of there. After the Nair trick—he signed the divorce papers. And they split the house."

"And this was a _friend_ of yours?" DiNozzo asked warily.

"Sure!" Ev and Lily said in unison. "You danced with her at our wedding," Lily added.

He looked stunned. "I did?"

"Mm-hmm." Another Greek chorus.

Gibbs cocked his head. "'bout five-two, strawberry blonde, _really_—uh—well built?"

"Stacked!" Charlie chirped from behind her worksheet and textbook. From the look on his face, I'm sure Gibbs was mentally muttering, _Is she __**really**__ just thirteen?_ We sometimes ask ourselves the same question.

"Yep, that's the one," Lily said. Charlie was engrossed in her homework and missed the exasperated look that was sent her way.

"Someone, quick—another story, before my mind goes down a really bad path," DiNozzo begged.

Tim snorted. "And that's saying a lot."

"Well… if you work it right, you can get revenge on two people at once," Gibbs said, polishing off the last of his pie (his third slice).

"Gin!" Mother announced, spreading her cards on the table.

Gibbs shook his head. "Glad you don't play poker." He did a quick tally and shuffled the cards. "So… Old man McGinty had a chunk of land that had been in his family for generations. Times got tough. He had to take out a loan, and, like a lotta people, found out it was written in the bank's favor. Ended up losing his farm, the land, _everything_. President of the bank wasn't too popular with anybody, but especially McGinty. Got the farm, the land—and _Mrs_. McGinty. She moved out lock, stock and lipstick before the foreclosure—and into Mr. Woodmark's three-story mansion." He quickly dealt the new hand.

We waited patiently. Finally Ducky said, "Is that all?"

"Huh?" Gibbs looked up from his cards. "Oh. Sorry. No—McGinty got to sell off his livestock, but he had one old cow nobody wanted. Nasty thing—helluva temper, put a hole in the wall once, busted McGinty's arm another time."

"Steak tartare," DiNozzo suggested.

"Nah, he didn't have the heart. Besides… the cow _really_ hated Mrs. McGinty. So before he split town, he left his soon to be ex-wife a going away present. Elsie." He smiled. "Took her over to the house while Woodmark was away for the day and missus had driven into town to spend money. Took Elsie in the house… and walked her up to the master bedroom suite on the third floor." He smirked and went back to his cards.

Ducky shook his head and chuckled slightly, but I was the only one who burst out laughing. "Okay, I'm sure Elsie trashed the place," McGee said reluctantly. "But…" He looked at Gibbs with a 'surely there's something more' look.

My best friend had married right out of high school and gone to live on a dairy farm. One of the oddball facts I know about cows, courtesy Laurie Taylor, is: "Cows can walk _up_stairs—but they can't walk _down_stairs. Their legs don't work right in that direction," I got out between giggles.

The others made various 'ah-ha' noises. "Elise trashed the place," Gibbs agreed with McGee. "They had to get a painter's scaffold erected and knock out a wall to get her out of there. Local vet adopted her, she was nice and quiet after that."

"Do you blame her?" Ev snickered. "She got it all out of her system."

"Yep. And when Woodmark called the sheriff, he said he couldn't arrest McGinty since nobody could _prove_ he took Elsie upstairs." He nodded at our skeptical looks. "Yeah, I know—but the sheriff had to refinance his house and Woodmark worked him over, too."

"My dad got revenge on a guy who screwed him, too," DiNozzo mused. "I didn't know the details for a long time—I don't think I know all of them even now. But he cost Dad, jeez, five mil, easy." (Five mil? Wow. Say it fast, it sounds like real money.) "This guy, he had an '86 Countach—"

"Pardon?" I said.

"Lamborghini Countach," he clarified.

"A very, very, very, _very_—" Abby thought for a moment. "—_very_ expensive car."

"Ah."

"Guy was out of the country for a week. Dad got someone into his house, re-geared the Lamborghini so it was American pattern instead of European—guy came home, thought he was in first gear, it was reverse… floored it, right into the side of the house."

I thought about the logistics of finding a mechanic that devious, who could work that quickly and quietly and neatly (was _nobody_ at this guy's house for a week?), breaking in, not having it noticed, the guy not feeling the difference when he shifted—but it was a good story, so I didn't say anything.

"I—well, _we_—reengineered someone's _workstation_ back at Johns Hopkins. Dismantled, really." McGee looked abashed—but a tiny bit proud. "Took apart _everything_—tower, monitor, keyboard, lamp, _mouse_—down to the last, smallest screw. We were nice enough to lay it out in order so he could reassemble it. Eventually."

DiNozzo looked suspicious. "You haven't done that to me."

"Not yet."

"Still pissed about shrinkwrapping your cubicle?"

"Yes." The rueful look on McGee's mug showed he wasn't _that_ pissed. "Must've cost you a fortune."

DiNozzo grinned. "Worth every penny."

"Ah, but did he leave a body?" Ducky asked. He drew a card; from the tiny quirk of his eyebrow, it wasn't a good one.

"You had a body in your office?" Suzy asked. "Other than the morgue, I mean?"

"Not precisely—" he started to say.

"Gin!" Mother chirped. Ducky took a moment to tally the cards, shuffle and deal; it was Mother's turn, but she couldn't even shuffle a regular deck, let alone double-deck gin.

"Ah, yes. We didn't shrinkwrap the workstation… We _did_ wrap it in crime scene tape, and tape the outline of a body on the floor. The gentleman so blessed had been out of town for two weeks. This was when I was working at the Los Angeles Coroner's Office…"

"He freak out?" Tony perked up. Apparently his cards weren't so hot.

"Quite. Mind you, this was a bit of revenge—he had duct taped an air horn beneath a chair so that when one sat on the chair—"

"One set off the horn," I finished. From his look, I was pretty sure who 'one' was.

"It seems he used his vacation to fabricate an elaborate alibi… and dispose of a romantic rival. The body had come into our morgue as a John Doe. Oh, my. He came in, took one look at his desk and fell apart. Confessed the whole of it before we had a chance to ask a question."

"Wow, that's better than the body on the lawn!"

"_What_ body on _what_ lawn, Charlie?" I asked sweetly.

There was a moment of silence. A long moment, broken only by the gentle slap of cards. "Um… mine."

I looked at Suzy in surprise. "Your lawn? Your body?"

"No, not my body—you see—well—" she actually looked embarrassed. "I had a problem with people ignoring my sign." I know the sign she means. It's smack dab on her front door: NO SOLICITING ~ NO TRESPASSING ~ NO PROSELYTIZING ~ NO HANDBILLS ~ NO CANVASSING ~ **NO KIDDING!** You'd have to be blind to miss it. "Specifically, the very determined evangelical groups."

"What, they don't know what 'proselytizing' means?" I shook my head.

"Apparently not. So my grandson used some yellow tape to make a body outline, scattered some Chick tracts nearby—they leave them at the university laundry room all the time—and, well… I don't know if it's coincidence or what… but they haven't bothered me in almost two years since…"

"I had a customer who said her brother was sharing a house with half dozen or so friends and answered the door to a Jehovah's Witness once. They have stock arguments—if you say you're Jewish, they'll say this, if you say you're Protestant, they'll say that, whatever you are, they have an argument. So her brother gets asked, 'What religion does your family follow?' and rattles off, 'Well, my parents are Lutheran, one sister is agnostic, one is Seventh Day Adventist, we have an aunt who became a Shaker, of my roommates we have one lapsed Catholic, one Pagan, a Druid Priest, a really, _really_ reform Jew, two atheists, two Buddhists—one Zen, one Nichiren Shoshu—one gal is Baha'i—and I'm into the Greek gods. Why do you ask?' The poor guy just stood there for a moment, said, 'Have a nice day,' and left." Ev grinned and popped a handful of cashews in her mouth.

"Not exactly a prank—but still funny," Abby said.

"Beats Saul," Lily said.

"True," Ev agreed. "Also not a prank, though."

"Saul?" Ducky asked, drawing a card and immediately discarding it. Eight of diamonds; I snatched it and tossed back a deuce of clubs.

"Back in college. Friend of ours who was really, really broke. We're talking so broke he couldn't pay attention. Lived on beans and rice and potatoes with the occasional, rare chicken. He made friends with an egg farmer who would once in a while have an old hen who was retired and too old and tough to be good to sell, so he'd let Saul have her for a buck or so. Saul couldn't care less, he could marinate and stew and end up with something edible. It was clean, it was fresh, it was safe, it was _food_. And it was cheap. But it was a whole chicken, freshly killed, so he'd have to pluck it and sharpen up a knife and whack it into pieces. One day he hears a knock at the door, opens it up, and there's some 'let me introduce you to Jesus' pair at the door. There he is, holding onto a bloody butcher knife, wearing his favorite robe—"

"The black one with the red and orange flames around the hem," Ev interjected.

"Forgot to mention Saul's about six-six, maybe a hundred and fifty, long black hair, long, thin face—looks kind of like a cross between Gandalf and Professor Snape."

"How fast did they tear out of there?" DiNozzo grinned.

"Fast." Ev gave an identical grin in return. "Personally, I like Joey's way of handling rabbits."

Ziva looked baffled. "Rabbits?"

"Sorry. It's a nickname for Bible thumpers. Thumper was the rabbit in Bambi…"

"Ah. I understand."

"Joey?" I asked. I swapped out a three of hearts for a four of diamonds. I was nowhere near winning this hand.

"You know him from Empire of Blood Roses. Baron Brunvald?"

"Oh, yeah." Nice guy, close to my age, big, tough fighter jock in the medieval recreation group. "How does he get rid of them?"

Ev laughed. "Before they get a chance to start on _their_ spiel, he starts with his. 'Let me tell you about _my_ gods!' They walk away with more information on Norse and Viking mythology than they ever got in school, I'm sure. He even has his own Chick tract type stuff to hand out. Much better written, of course."

"He's the one who used chemical warfare in the fountain as a protest, too." Charlie was gathering her homework together. "I don't recall _what_ he was protesting…"

"What sort of chemical warfare?" Abby asked.

Charlie grinned. "Bubble bath. He was a chemistry major, created a spectacular foaming surfactant. Very thick foam, long lasting… The fountain provided perfect agitation. It stayed aerated for a good hour outside the water, and with the fountain constantly replenishing the supply… Do you remember the laundry room scene in _Freaky Friday_? The original?" she added. Some of us nodded. "A hundred times worse. Thick bubbles all over the quad… The more they tried to clean it, the worse it became."

"Just like marbles," Mother said.

Non sequitur of the moment. "What marbles, Grandma?" Charlie asked.

Mother looked up from her cards. "My Aunt Melanie was a _dreadful_ snoop. She would come to tea or for the weekend and poke her nose into _everything_. Gloria and Eugenia decided to teach her a lesson. They borrowed our brother's marbles, carefully put them behind the mirror in the upstairs powder room… when Aunt Melanie opened the mirror, marbles went _everywhere_…"

"I remember hearing about that," Ducky laughed. "The marbles hit the sink so fast and furious, they broke off the corner, my grandfather had to replace the sink, the housekeeper came running, slipped on the marbles and broke her arm."

"Gloria and Eugenia were _quite_ in disgrace," Mother said darkly. "They had to eat their meals in the playroom for a month." She smiled. "James and I would sneak them cake and ice cream and biscuits every night. We _despised_ Aunt Melanie. That was before I hated Gloria, of course. Gin." She set down her cards and fumbled for her cane. "And good night."

After the dispensing of hugs and kisses, Charlie headed upstairs to the spare bed in Lexi's room, Mother to her room across the hall and we started sorting cards back into two decks. "Hey," Ev said abruptly. "Tell 'em about the fearless vampire killers."

I looked at her blankly. "The movie?"

I got an answering stare. "There was a _movie_?"

"Yeah. Roman Polanski. _The Fearless Vampire Killers, or, Pardon Me, But Your Fangs Are in My Neck._ I think that's the title."

"Actually, it's 'teeth,'" DiNozzo corrected.

"Thanks. Saw it as a double feature, with _Son of Dracula_."

"Lon Chaney, Junior?"

"Harry Nilsson and Ringo Starr, actually." I keep hoping they'll put it out on DVD.

"High school? Halloween?" Ev prompted over Abby's, "You mean Ringo Starr, the Beatles Ringo Starr?"

"Oh…" I laughed weakly. "That one."

"Ringo Starr?" Abby repeated.

"It's a funny movie, I have a bootleg copy, I'll loan it to you," DiNozzo rattled off. He settled into his chair, propped his feet up and looked at me expectantly. "Well? High school? Halloween? This sounds good."

What the hell. I finished sorting my handful of cards and put the decks back into their cases. "Okay. This is back when I was, hello, in high school. I hung out a lot with the theatre geeks, some of them were in the little theatre groups around the area. So there was this one group they were in Chevy Chase, a lot of my friends were working with them, doing _Dracula_ for Halloween. So, some of us drove over—this was the week before Halloween—and caught the Friday night show. It was great. Seriously, great. So we were walking back to the car, we were going past this old shopping center—it had the front display window on each side, then a sort of corridor where you walk to the front door, about twenty feet back. I was wearing these sandals with heels, the heels made a clicking on the pavement and it echoed like crazy. It was really foggy, too. Very atmospheric, very spooky."

I broke off. "It's really lame—"

"No, come on, tell us the rest," Abby begged.

"Well, it struck us all at the same time, we started goofing around, Carlos pretending to be a vampire—he had brought a cape he made—stalking me as the victim, just stupid kids goofing around."

"Oh, no, you don't," Ev laughed. She had heard the whole story years ago. "Come one. Spill it."

I accepted the screwdriver Gibbs held out. "Okay. So we played around with it, I was the victim, Stan was my boyfriend." I made quote marks in the air. "We would have a fight, he'd go storming off, Carlos would accost me, Stan would save me, the end. We wanted to freak the mundanes." Only the convention-goers of the crowd got the reference. "We worked out a signal. If I saw people getting too close, I'd do this—" I put my arms up in a cross. "And Carlos would bail. We practiced a few times, just screwing around, then headed home."

"What did people say?" Ziva asked.

"We actually didn't see anyone. Well, we saw them, but they just looked at us like, 'Screwy kids,' and went back to what they were doing."

"What possessed you…" Ducky started to say, chuckling.

"It seemed a good idea at the time," I quoted back sweetly. "Come on, you do stupid things when you're a teenager."

Abby snorted. "Amen to that."

"So we got back home, I was driving—I was the only one with a car—and we were going to let Stan out first. He said wouldn't it be fun to try this in a more populated area? So we pulled into a neighborhood about a mile from his parents' place. We saw some good parties going on, figured that was a good area. Dropped off Carlos, then Stan took the wheel. We drove back, he screeched to a halt, pulled off to the side and I got out, slamming the door.

"'You are such an inconsiderate jerk!' I yelled. 'That's _it_! We are _through_! I don't even want to be in the car with you! I'm walking home!' And I went stomping off.

"Stan yelled a couple of things after me, and drove off. I went clomping down the street, muttering stuff… and then Carlos started stalking me, following me. I knew he was back there, but we passed a car and I _swear_ I couldn't see him in the side mirror."

"Ooooooh." Abby shivered and huddled into her chair. "Spooky."

"Method actor. So he starts doing his speech. 'You cannot resist me… you are under my power…' schlock stuff. I stop, turn around…" I let myself get a vague, hypnotized look. "'Yes… of course, master…'" I said in a faint, wussy 30s heroine voice. I ignored the snickers. "So Carlos is doing his gesturing, I'm walking slowly toward him… and behind him I can see people spilling out of this one house, heading for us. I'm thinking, 'Oh, crap, we are _so_ outnumbered. They're gonna kill him.' So I go to move my arms up—" I gestured. "And got a muscle cramp. Couldn't move."

Abby clamped her hand over her mouth and Ziva winced. "Did they hurt him?" Ziva asked.

"No. I finally managed—" I crossed my wrists. "—and Carlos figured, 'Good enough.' He turned around, and by then there were about fifteen people behind him. I _scream-m-m-m-m-m-ed_—" I did I quiet scream with the word. "And when they were focused on me, he threw the hood over his head, ducked down and scuttled away. Oh, I was all over the place. Screaming, sobbing, hysterical—they wanted to call the cops, and I'm thinking, 'Oh, good, when my parents bail me out—IF my parents bail me out…' and Stan drove up right then. Thank god. We had a tearful reunion, he convinced them _not_ to go hunting this crazy guy, and he'd call the cops from home. They're all saying, 'Wow, if it weren't Halloween this week…' We could not get out of there fast enough."

DiNozzo was looking at me like I was nuts. (We had been.) "You bailed on your vampire?"

"No, no. We drove around the blocks slowly; I'm leaning out the window calling, 'Car-r-r-r-r-r-r-l-o-o-o-o-o-s-s-s-s-s' in a whisper. Finally we hear a hiss, 'Open the back door!' and he comes falling into the car in a huddle on the floor, whispers, 'Get me the fuck _outta_ here!' and we take off."

"So they chased him?" Suzy had her elbows on the table, chin on her fists.

"No, no, thank heavens. No, he said he took off down the way and slipped into someone's back yard… and saw evidence they had a dog. A big dog. He sent out, 'Nice doggie, doggie sleeping' vibes and scaled the wall—no mean feat in that cape—into the next neighbor's driveway. Just as he was heading to the street, a car comes by. He drops to the ground, cape over his head, pretending to be a pile of leaves. It's a _cop car_. They flash a searchlight _right over his head_ and miss him. He said he was ready to spend the whole night as a pile of leaves when we drove past a few minutes later. We found out later the cops were looking for a dog that had gotten out and was knocking over trash cans."

"That's not the end of it," Ev said, while the others laughed and applauded.

I rolled my eyes. "As I said, Stan lived sort of nearby. So a few days later, he asked around. 'I heard some girl got attacked the other day?' 'Oh, yeah, man… I was at this party, this chick was walking by, and this THING, it, like, ATTACKED HER, it, like, TORE OUT HER THROAT…' By the end of the week, it wasn't near midnight, it was just past sunset, I was lying dead in a pool of blood with my throat torn open… and Carlos turned into a bat and flapped off into the evening sky." I flapped my hands and took a bow. "The story that there was a vampire loose in the area persisted for several years."

"Thus are urban legends born," McGee said solemnly—but with a twinkle in his eye.

"We decided to stop while we were ahead." I started collecting debris from our snacking. I started wracking my brain for more stories in case this went on until midnight.

"Let me help." Ziva gathered a handful of glasses, and helped me take the whole mess to the kitchen. As we walked back to the living room, she looked at me and cocked her head. "Where did you get that t-shirt?" she asked.

"This old thing?" It was an oldie but a goodie: _**Beat Me, Whip Me, Hurt Me, Make Me Write Bad Fanzines!**_ "It's a play on the old one, 'Beat me, whip me, hurt me, make me write bad checks.' Fanzines are amateur press publications—now they're on the internet. Back in the good ol' days, we'd publish them by hand, sometimes a hand crank mimeo machine—you know about those?" I looked around the group; Gibbs smirked, and received a couple of funny looks from his team. "In addition to the more mainstream stories, some writers would specialize in h/c stories—hurt/comfort, where a character gets smacked around. Or slash—"

"I've heard about that," DiNozzo said hastily.

"We all have," Gibbs said.

We _had_ discussed s-f conventions a few times. But I didn't remember discussing _that_. "Well, in addition to b-and-d, bondage and discipline, someone came up with the alternative for b-and-d in a story." I started handing out quilts and blankets for the living room crashers.

Ducky looked interested. "Alternative?"

"Bondage and disappointment. You tie them up and leave them alone."

The others laughed—but I thought we'd have to call 911 for Suzy. She finally stopped gasping and choking on her Sunrise and I caught the look in her eyes. My own eyes narrowed. "You've been holding out. I can tell."

Suzy smiled into her drink. She was still fighting the giggles. "Well… Charlie may be precocious—skip that, she is. But there are some things I just didn't want to discuss in front of those still too young to vote."

"Oh, this sounds good," DiNozzo said, scooching his chair forward.

"Okay. Back in the good ol' days—college, nursing school—I was _quite_ a bit taller. I was the center on the girls' basketball team, even! So, we were living in a dorm… I had a dorm neighbor a few doors down who was of French Canadian extraction. Annoying little… puppy. I was junior; she was a freshman. She was an inch or so taller than I, so we're looking at about 5'11, almost six feet."

Gibbs was impressed. "Wow."

"You lose a lot, standing on your feet as a nurse for fifty-plus years," she shot back.

"Or an M.E.," Ducky grumbled. He, too, used to be close on 5'10" or 5'11". No more.

"Well," she continued, "One afternoon, my roommate was out and I was studying. Let's call her… Dominique. Yes. Dominique the puppy trotted in and wanted to play her favorite game, one she played with her boyfriend at home, and I was the only one big enough to be her new playmate. Mind you, this was right after the Korean Conflict—I had been a candy striper and nurse's aide in high school, so I did a two-year hitch and got a lot of hands-on training for nursing school."

"That would do it," Gibbs said quietly, staring down at his bottle.

"Also I'm of Germanic extraction, blonde—well, back then—to her brunette. Crucial. She handed me a very realistic plastic Colt 45 and a length of rope." I blinked. This was Suzy—Grandma Suzy—telling this? Yoiks! "The game was that she was the brave French Resistance and I was an evil Nazi interrogator. She wanted me to tie her up, beat her lightly, and role play interrogation."

"Oh my god!" Ev gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth in shock. "You're—no, you're not joking."

Suzy shook her head, grinning. "I was getting irritated—I truly had to study and she simply would _not_ leave me alone. Like a bored puppy. So… I… played. I tied her—quite well—to the unpadded oak desk chair; put her hands behind the ladder back, tied them—" She held out her hands, wrists crossed. "Then ran the rope down, through the braces, around a chair leg and tied to her ankle. This is important—she couldn't stand up or move. And, boy, oh, boy! She was _thrilled_, she knew I was the right one! Her boyfriend was never clever enough to think of this rope method! I smiled, patted her on the cheek… and took off to the library with my books to finish studying. Two and a half hours later, my roommate walked in to find her tied up, facing the door, and crying because she really had to pee-e-e-e-e-e! And so disappointed I hadn't played her game!" We were all howling with laughter (it's amazing Charlie and Lexi hadn't pounded back downstairs). "So… I _have _played B & D!" She saluted us with her drink, curtseying graciously to our enthusiastic applause.

"Oh, what your roommate must have been thinking," Ziva said, shaking her head.

"Poor Lara. She just stood there, baffled at the sight. What in the hell was this person—who lived three doors down, mind you—doing tied up, weeping, babbling incoherently... in her—well, our—room? She was kind enough to untie the wretch and get out of the way while she bolted for the lav." We were rolling with laughter again; I swear I saw Gibbs wiping his eyes.

"Well… she _wanted_ torture..." There was a spark of way too much interest in Abby's eyes.

"She also tried out for the girls college soccer team—and used a professional soccer block on the coach. Remember, she was close on six feet, around two hundred pounds of damn-solid muscle. _He_ was around 6"1" of lean Spanish grandee-ness—Señor Miguel Gil, he also taught Spanish—and he _might_ have weighed one-sixty dripping wet. Bash! He went down and she left—I swear to everything holy—_footprints_ across his stomach and chest while stealing the ball. She was heartbroken they didn't choose her for the team. Poor Señor Gil stayed in bed something like three days. After college, she joined the local police force, one of the first women on the actual force, not just a secretary. Had repeated complaints of brutality."

Gibbs' team was, by now, a mass of hysterics, supporting each other and in tears with laughter. Ducky and I were holding each other up and Ev and Lily had slid to the floor, unable to sit up straight. Even Gibbs was flat-out grinning. "I can imagine," he said.

"Oh, not because she was brutal, per se," Suzy said. "But this was New York in the fifties. She would tackle fleeing five-foot tall Puerto Rican gangstas. On pavement. And land on top of them. Hard." She cocked her head. "Heard she joined the Marines after that."

"The Marines?" Gibbs asked skeptically.

"Would _you_ try to keep her out?" Suzy shot back.

He didn't miss a beat. "Nope. A dozen like her, point 'em at the Taliban and say, 'Sic 'em!'—done deal." He grabbed one of the pillows stacked by the fireplace. "We're gonna have some interesting dreams tonight, I think…"

As Ducky and I got ready for bed, I noticed the look he was giving me. "Vampire victim?" he finally said.

"Piglets?" I retorted.

"It's a good thing Alexandra was in bed," he said.

"And too young to follow most of what was going on."

"And Charlotte is not given to sharing things she shouldn't."

"True." I suddenly stopped short. "I just realized…"

"What?"

"Abby, Tim, Suzy—even Mother and Gibbs. Everyone told tales—_everyone except Ziva_."

Ducky shrugged. "Her stories are probably classified," he said flippantly. "She'd have to kill us if she told us."

"Either that…" I frowned as I climbed into bed. I turned and gave Ducky a look. "Or she was taking notes."

Gibbs was right. Very interesting dreams that night.

* * *

><p>More AN: It's been well established that the Ducky & Cassandra Mallard universe is a bit AU. I might occasionally reference an episode, but I'm not following the series with every 'i' dotted and every 't' crossed. Mrs. Mallard ain't gonna die in my universe for a long, long time.

Partly because I haven't had access to current episodes for almost 3 years and partly because some characters appear very, very little in my universe (i.e. Leon Vance), certain storylines and character events won't appear. The trip to Mexico and the Reynosa cartel? Nope. Jackie Vance's death? Hasn't happened. (I'm marginally up to date; I've just only seen 2 recent episodes: #200, and Ducky's really bad date.)

Now the question: in real life, who is associated with what tale? Me? A friend in real life in the past? A current friend in real life? A friend from online? A relative? Someone else? Or just a totally made up story/stolen from another source?

If you feel so inclined, put your guesses in the review section. I'd love to see what people pin on me.


	69. I Can Please Only One Person Per Day

_Bummer. I was so hoping to get some guesses on the last chapter..._

March, 2012

* * *

><p><strong>I Can Please Only One Person Per Day.<br>****Today Is Not Your Day.  
><strong>**Tomorrow Isn't Looking Good Either.**

Elephants.  
>Thundering herd of elephants.<br>Or just thunder?  
>Maybe a train…?<p>

But what the hell is a train doing in our upstairs hallway?  
>Or a thunderstorm, for that matter?<br>And would someone tell those damned elephants to _knock it off_?!

I dragged myself into a sitting position and scrabbled my hands through my hair. "Ducky—" Oh. Yeah. Ducky had been called out of town to help with a bi-coastal jurisdiction case; gone for a week. I tried not to hate him for the sun and surf of L.A. I opened the bedroom door—

—and almost got flattened.

Elephant? Thunder? Train?

None of the above. Toddler on a Big Wheel, racing up and down the hall in the Reston 500. _How the hell did she get it up_— "Hey!" I bellowed. Lexi skidded to a stop. "What the _hell_ are you doing?!"

Lexi's eyes widened at the usually-I-control-it-better bad word. "Riding my trike," she said cautiously.

Kids can be so damned literal. I gritted my teeth. "Is that an _outside_ toy?"

"Uh…"

I waited for a full minute. "The answer is, 'Yes, the trike is an outside toy.' Now. Is _this_—" I waved at the hallway. "—outside?"

"Uh…" Clearly she was going with 'no answer is better than a bad answer.'

"Not. It's not. Outside toys are for outside play for a reason. They're messy, like sidewalk chalk or bubbles. They're water toys, like Slip-n-Slide. Or they're riding toys, like Aunt Charlie's skates, Daddy's bicycle, your trike—" I looked pointedly at the offending toy. "Outside toys have to stay outside, in the garage. It's a safety issue and it's a damage issue." She looked at me blankly; I was going too fast. I pointed to the front wheel. "See the gravel?" She nodded. "That's stuck in the plastic from riding outside." I pointed to the floor. "See the holes and scratches?" She nodded again. "The gravel damaged the wood floor. Someone—namely, me!—will have to fix that!" I was trying not to get pissed, but I knew what work awaited me. "Plus, you had no business _going_ _outside_ without asking me at this unholy hour of the morning!"

"You were sweeping!"

"Exactly!"

"But I want to ride my trike!"

"And you need to ask permission for things like that and you _know_ you need to ask!" I was in full 'mom stance'—hands on hips, feet planted firmly on the floor, hair on end, a five-pointed human star—and right about to go nova. I hadn't even had my coffee yet, dammit!

"Can I? Pway? With the trike?"

"Lexi, it's a quarter past freaking five in the morning! You may not play outside, period, at this hour! And, I'm sorry, but for breaking so many rules, that trike is off limits for the day."

Lexi burst into tears. "I sorry!" (She really _was_ upset. She skipped a verb completely.)

"All criminals are sorry once they're caught," I muttered. "I'm glad to hear your apology, sweetie. Being sorry is one part. Not doing this _ever_ again is another. But if you break rules, you get punished. A fitting punishment for this: no trike. For the rest of today." More tears and sniffles and pathetic noises. "Tomorrow." I stood firm. "You may have your trike back tomorrow." (Be glad Daddy isn't home. He's the one who refinished the floor last year. You wouldn't get this thing back 'til college.)

Since I was already up, I got dressed and marched the plastic tricycle back to the garage (all the while wondering how she had gotten it upstairs so silently) and got started on breakfast. Well, coffee, anyway. It was going to be a _long_ day.

While Mother snored in the other room and Lexi played sullenly on the floor in the study (I had the feeling that the Mommy doll was being kidnapped by cannibals and stuffed in the stew pot), I went online for some tips on how to repair a wood floor within a week. It wasn't going to be _that_ bad—but there were things I would much rather be doing.

Once Mother was up, I made breakfast for us all (to put a more pleasant spin on the morning, pancakes, scrambled eggs with cheese and ham and "mashed browns" with onions) and loaded everyone into the van. The gardening staff at Home Depot all know her by sight; I could leave her to wander the aisles with a minimum of guilt, grab the supplies I needed to repair the floor while keeping Lexi with me as I did my mad dash, and probably only pay another sixty bucks for what Mother fell in love with. A babysitting bargain, compared to the times she's gotten away from me.

Another plus—the flowers and plants would keep Lexi and Mother occupied while I worked on the floor.

Through sheer necessity, I've become competent at building and repairing things. I can do things "well enough" that they pass muster at the store: I've built, dismantled, repaired and destroyed bookcases by the score; stripped carpet and laid linoleum; stripped linoleum and laid carpet; repaired plumbing and electrical problems; built perfectly plumb brick planters. But I have never done anything to a wood floor beyond maintaining the ones at my old house. Repairs never crossed my path.

I was smart enough to bring in pictures of the damage. The flooring expert clicked through the shots on my cell phone, saying, "No problem, no problem—oh."

'Oh' is a close cousin to 'uh-oh.' "How bad is 'oh?'" I asked grimly.

"These are pretty deep gouges, all across the hallway. This was either landing or takeoff point. You're looking at cutting out the boards, replacing—"

I closed my eyes and winced. I actually knew what he was talking about; Ducky—with Gibbs' 'assistance'—had done just that… last year. (Gibbs disdains electrical tools as a rule, but even he is willing to use a circular saw when the need arises.) The good news: we had enough bits and pieces left over from last year, neatly stored in the garage, so that I could get away with the wood on hand (I hoped).

The bad news: I was gonna need help.

I collected Mother (and shelled out another $82.73 in the garden center), loaded everyone and everything in the van and slogged my way home. Seeing the McAllister-Campbell transport vehicle in the driveway brightened my mood immensely.

"Wood floor? Ducky's wood floor?" Ev held up her hands to ward off evil spirits. "I'll help, but that's past my mad skills category. I can be a minion, but I need a fearless leader."

"I'll be the minion's minion," Lily volunteered.

I gave in to the inevitable and pulled out my cellphone. "Hi. Gibbs?"

Since it was to save the hide of his beloved Peanut, he promised to keep our dirty little secret. He also spent all Saturday afternoon getting the really damaged end of the hallway started. He had the able crew of Ev and Lily to help; I willingly took over the idiot-proof (allegedly) repair of the smaller scratches and gouges, while Charlie rode herd on Mother and Lexi in the garden. After dinner, he promised to be back the next morning, but warned that he'd only be able to come by after work the rest of the week—caseload permitting. I sent out "no crime vibes" and tried not to freak out over the idea of Ducky coming home to a hallway torn asunder.

I was up while it was still dark out; Gibbs arrived while the coffee was half done and the other reasonably responsible adults were still at the breakfast table, yawning. (He even walked in with a bag of fast food breakfast for the four of us. Unasked. Sweet.) Charlie and Lexi were camped out on the floor of Mother's room; coffee in hand, we had been sawing and hammering and sanding for three hours before they emerged. (Bless her butt; Charlie made breakfast for the three of them, too.)

Because the worst damage was at the far end of the hallway, Lexi still had access to her room—if she walked very carefully. Charlie escorted her—just in case. "I really appreciate you guys giving up your weekend like this," I sighed.

"Tomorrow is another day," she quoted in a die-away Southern belle voice.

"Is it tomorrow?" Lexi asked.

"I wish," I snorted. "If it were tomorrow, I'd be a lot further along."

"Oh." She scrunched up her forehead. "Wiw you show me how to pway Chinese jump rope?"

"Of course. I'm sure we can find something in the yard to stand in for a second person," Charlie said agreeably.

"Grandma could pway!" Lexi suggested as they picked their way into her room.

I shuddered at the vision of Victoria playing Chinese jump rope (and imagined trying to explain to my husband why his just-turned-104-year-old-mother was in traction), left Charlie to sort out that mess and returned to my filling and sanding and buffing.

By dinner, we weren't done, but optimistic. The hallway still looked like a do-it-yourself ad, but we had hopes of having the work done by Wednesday, the floor polished and waxed Thursday, the runners back in place Friday morning and Ducky none the wiser when he came home Saturday. As weeks go, I've had far more fun things planned.

I hated to admit it even in my own mind, but if Lexi and Mother hadn't been underfoot (despite Charlie's willing assistance), I would have been much further along by Monday morning. But life is what you deal with. Of course, the moment she walked in the kitchen and heard the synopsis of the weekend, Suzy scolded me for not calling her for backup. "I could have kept Victoria amused, entertained—or at least tied up."

"Suzy, you all but live here—and don't think we haven't been trying to figure out how to get you to do it for real. You give up a _lot_ of your free time to help us out without our even asking, we don't want you to feel put upon—"

"Oh, shut up," she said cheerfully. "You're like a second family—even if I _do_ get paid. Now—would it help if I bundled Victoria home for the week?"

Tempting. "No, with you here and Lexi in school… I'm just scared to death I'll screw this up," I said in an undertone. "Ducky doesn't get angry very often, but, man, he put blood, sweat and tears into refinishing that hallway. He will _flip_ if he finds out what happened."

"I think he'd understand," Suzy said. "But, just the same—if you don't _have_ to tell him, I see no reason to do so."

"Mother won't spill the beans. She's clueless about what's going on. And Lexi knows if she wants to make it to four, keeping her yap shut is a good idea."

The guilty party tumbled into the kitchen, yawning and stretching. "Morning… Mommy. Morning… Suzy," she got out around her yawns.

Suzy laughed ruefully. (She's got five kids and eight grandkids. She knows what trouble toddlers can be.) "So. What worlds do you plan to conquer today?"

Lexi looked puzzled. "Today?"

"It's Monday! Preschool! You're in… Miss Samantha's room, right?"

Lexi nodded. "It's not tomorrow?"

"Nope. Today's today, tomorrow's tomorrow, and "Yesterday" made the Beatles a fortune. I feel like having Cream of Wheat with raisins. Care to join me?" Suzy asked.

"Sure! Can I go get Grandma?"

"May I," I auto-corrected. I glanced at the clock. "Yeah. _Gently_."

If it had been something simple—say, we pulled up the carpet and discovered a hardwood floor with a neat row of tack holes in a row—I probably could have had the job done in two days. But I couldn't go three inches without finding a tiny bit of damage. It was like Old MacDonald's Farm—a scratch-scratch here, a scrape-scrape there; here, a pinhole, there, a gouge… I was being anal about matching the color variation _just so_ and having it invisible to the naked eye.

I've proved just how replaceable I am by doing my part of running the store via computer on several occasions. But some things I have to do in person—including signing payroll checks. Nobody would get paid until Friday, but Miyoko would be in Thursday to do the actual payroll from the past two weeks; I could leave pre-signed checks, she'd fill in the blanks and imprint checks. It would probably be easiest to run in Tuesday or Wednesday, even if it would be an absurd amount of gas.

While working on the hallway that evening, Gibbs offered the services of a top-notch forger to save me the gas. "Tempting, tempting… but it would be nice for the owner of the business to drop in on said business once in a blue moon. I'll just run in tomorrow. Or Wednesday."

Lexi perked up. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes, but you'll be in school. I promise—this Saturday we'll spend the whole day at the store."

"Not tomorrow?" She almost pouted.

"Saturday."

As Lexi trudged off to her room, Gibbs grinned. "Whole lotta parents would kill to have kids that into reading."

I snorted. "Whole lot easier if the parents _read_."

What with one thing and another, I didn't get to the store on Tuesday. I _did,_ however, get stuck at the supermarket for three hours because I locked the keys in the van. I called Suzy, who volunteered to come over with the spare keys. Unfortunately, the spare keys were with Ev, who had borrowed the van last week and accidentally taken the keys home with her. So I had the manager put my groceries into the cooler while I waited for triple-A.

After close to an hour (past the 30-45 minute timeframe) I called back. "The driver couldn't find you."

"It's a Chevy cargo van with personalized plates. I'm smack-dab in front of Chop Shop Hair Salon. I'm pacing the sidewalk. He can't miss me!"

He did. Twice. Finally I got home, but it was so late, I had to throw things in the fridge and pantry, grab a late lunch and turn around to pick up Lexi from preschool. I grumbled about my morning on the drive home. "I _have_ to go to Papyrus tomorrow, or the villagers will storm the castle."

"Hunh?"

I gave her a Cliff's Notes version of _Frankenstein_ ("Oh, wike the scene in _Beauty and the Beast_!") and told her people want to get paid On Time. "If I don't sign their paychecks tomorrow, Miyo can't fill them in and Valerie can't hand them out on Friday."

"Will it_ ever_ be tomorrow?"

"God, I hope so," I muttered.

"Me, too," she sighed.

"I promise. Saturday. We'll go to the store Saturday. We'll take Grandma, too."

She perked up. "Geoff wiw wike that."

"Yep."

Gibbs was sure we'd be done by Wednesday night. I was starting to mainline Tums.

I beat the rush hour traffic to the store on Wednesday. Okay; I cheated. I took Suzy up on her offer to run Lexi to school. I signed checks, and whiled away the rush hour by working in the store. Shelving, pricing, looking at the stuff that had come in, thumbing through trade credit cards to see who had been by—

Damn, I was missing it. And it hadn't been that long.

I put up with the good-natured, "Thank god, we get paid!" from several voices, warned Geoff that his favorite helper would be there on Saturday, and headed back to Reston.

Gibbs was right. We were right on target. Suzy told me to stay in the groove, and she went to pick up Lexi. It took them a while to get back—Victoria insisted on going in to the school with Suzy, and everybody wanted to meet her. (A lot of the kids don't even _have_ grandmothers—let alone a grandmother over a hundred. She was quite the celebrity.) Gibbs arrived right after they got home, and was escorted upstairs by Lexi, who was chattering away a mile a minute.

At her room, she stopped and cocked her head at me. "Is it Saturday?"

I laughed. "No, thank heavens. Today is Wednesday."

"Is it tomorrow?"

"Nope. Tomorrow is Thursday."

"Oh." Looking even more puzzled than before, she started to head downstairs, then stopped. "May I pway in my woft?" she asked very formally.

"Yes, you may," I said, equally formally. "Please change into your art clothes before you go outside."

She barreled into her room and came out minutes later in ratty cutoffs and an even rattier t-shirt. "Can Grandma pway, too?"

"_May_ Grandma play. No, Grandma is taking her nap."

"_May_ Suzy?"

"You may _ask_ Suzy. But don't be pushy. She's here to help Grandma during the week, not be your slave."

It took until nine that night, but we finished. Gibbs swore that once it was polished, buffed, sealed, waxed and all the other _Miss Congeniality_ treatments, Ducky would be none the wiser.

Yeah. Right. More Tums.

Knowing how well Mother interacts with tradesmen sometimes—pretty vilely—before Suzy left Wednesday, she suggested a day trip to the mall.

I was thrilled—and aghast. "The mall? The whole day at the mall?"

"The whole day at… a bookstore… at Lowe's—meaning a new gardening center… at a toy store, where she can get things for Lexi and Charlie… at that Mexican restaurant only she likes…"

And it would be cheaper than a lawsuit from Miles of Tiles Floor Care. "Sold."

The next morning, I had Lexi up and moving before she was conscious. "Floor repair guys will be here at eight, hustle, hustle," I said, none-too-gently plunking down waffles and sausage and sliced fruit.

"Is it tomorrow?" she asked with a whine in her voice that set my teeth right on edge.

"No," I snapped. I took a deep breath. "Sorry. No. It's today. And I'm really pushed for time, honey, so—sorry that I bit your head off. This morning is not a good morning. We have to get the floor finished today. Period. Okay?"

"Okay," she mumbled. She kept her eyes on her plate while I flew around the kitchen getting her snack ready and getting Mother's breakfast ready to cook the moment Suzy arrived. Suzy came in the kitchen door only fifteen minutes later; melon smile in one hand and lunchbox in the other, Lexi scooted past her and headed for the van, her mother seconds behind her. We did the world's fastest run to school, unload and return; Suzy, with Mother's lone credit card safely hidden in her purse, had her dressed and out the door only minutes before Miles of Tiles showed up.

The two young men admired our handiwork (probably grumbling inwardly that we hadn't called them), and laid down a base coat. They ran to a second job four blocks away, came back to do the next coat for us and kept up the switch off for several hours. They finished just before I had to go get Lexi, and left with the admonition not to set foot upstairs until at least 8pm—morning would be better. I knew the drill, and already had clothing for Lexi and myself downstairs.

Mother, of course, was thrilled that we were camping out with her. We didn't have to worry about Mother going upstairs—she needed assistance walking stairs—and I put a big reminder at the bottom of the stairs for Lexi (a chair with a 3 foot high piece of poster board reading **NO!**).

As she wandered in to where I was making a bed on the couch, Lexi asked, "Is it tomorrow yet?"

"No, but it will be soon," I sighed. "I am so done with this week—stick a fork in it."

"Soon?"

"Soon," I promised. Not soon enough.

I had chatted with Ducky every night, as had Lexi, and neither of us let on that there was anything wrong in paradise. So it was no surprise to get a call around ten o'clock.

"I was hoping to leave this afternoon, make it home tonight—"

Would it damage my marriage to say, 'Please, don't?' Yeah, probably would.

"But I did manage to get a seven a.m. flight. I'll be back well in time for dinner. What are we having?"

Cooked goose? "You choose."

"La-a-a-a-a-a-mb chops," he said, drawing out the word and making it sound absolutely salacious.

"With all the fixin's."

"With all the fixin's," he echoed.

He talked to Lexi for a bit, and I went to sleep structuring my next day like a NASA blast off.

"Okay. After I take you to school, the carpet runners will be back." Still not sure how, but Lexi had damaged one of the runners. Since it needed to go in for repair, I sent both of them in—it would definitely show up if only one of them got cleaned. I'll work on some of what we're having tonight—the baked apple chunks and ol' rotten potatoes can at least get started—" (Nothing like a toddler to change the names of food.) "And after I pick you up, we can pick up Daddy at the airport…"

Running here, running there. They brought the correct runners (Wouldn't it have been a hoot if they had brought the wrong order? No, it would not have been.), everything looked just as it had a week ago—maybe a little bit cleaner. Not a sin.

I picked up Lexi at school and snaked my way through traffic to the airport. Ducky sent me a text about ten minutes out of Dulles, _Hanging out by the no parking zone, trying not to get arrested for solicitation._ Yeah, that's my husband. Lightly warped around the edges.

"It's so good to be home!" he sang out when I pulled to the curb and jumped out to open the back doors to the van. That he was able to say this while under the narrow-eyed scrutiny of the cops tells me how fun the trip was. (Not.)

"Did you go to Disneywand?" Lexi asked before he even had his seatbelt buckled.

"No, dear, this was a working trip. But I'm sure we'll take a trip to California soon, and we can _all_ visit Disneyland. Or perhaps Disneyworld."

"Coow!"

"So. What is my honey-do list for the weekend?" he teased.

"Nothing," I said archly. "As a matter of fact, you may sleep in, if you wish."

"Hah. There is a metric ton of paperwork awaiting my arrival at the Navy Yard."

"Well, tomorrow Lexi, Mother and I are going to the store for the entire day. You're on your own."

"Tomorrow?"

I glanced in the rearview mirror. "Yes, sweetie. Tomorrow."

I swerved a little as she burst into tears. Big tears. Loud sobs. I pulled off into the parking lot for Hertz while Ducky tried to calm her down. "Are you hurt? Are you feeling ill?"

"Lexi, Lexi, what is it?" I almost strangled myself trying to get over the console.

"I'm—never—gonna—ride—my—trike—again!" she wept. "It's—never—tomorrow!"

Lexi outed herself, Mommy wanted to crawl under the carpet from shame (I had totally forgotten about the inanimate cause of all our problems this week)—and Ducky was more upset by Lexi's tears than the damage to the floor. It didn't erase the need for a mild lecture later on—

—_after_ we all went on a bike ride to the park.


	70. Old Hippies Never Die

September, 2012

* * *

><p><strong>Old Hippies Never Die (They Just Smell That Way)<strong>

One of the things the hippie movement should be praised for: tie-dye. Oh, they didn't invent it—but they escalated it to something beyond mere art form. Mass-marketed and machine-made shirts may be pretty—but I'll take home-grown backyard craft first. My mother was the crafts chairman for many of my years in Girl Scouts, and often helped out at school, too. And we did cool stuff. Mom taught us tie-dye, silk screening, carved potato ink stamping, batik (under very, _very_ careful supervision), even papermaking and marbling the end product. We had a blast. I also took the treat box home on a way-too-frequent basis because everyone liked her cookies best. I had a high hurdle to live up to in the Mom department.

But I threw myself into the job with enthusiasm (if not sense). Lexi was definitely not ready to do tie-dye—but Charlie sure was, and Ev and Lily joined in the fun. Thus from the tender age of one month, my kid looked like a refugee from Woodstock. (As time went on, it was a great way to salvage grape juice stained clothes, too.)

As she got older, I taught Lexi how to do her own tying and direct what part of the shirt or shorts to put in which color of dye. She had some pretty good results, sometimes by design, sometimes by accident.

At school, the teachers raved about her outfits. I'm as susceptible to praise as anyone—so, in a moment of weakness, I agreed to teach a room full of four-year-olds how to twist and tie t-shirts.

I must have been out of my mind.

Parents kicked in five bucks to cover a t-shirt and one packet of dye. Because sharing is a good thing, we let them order a second or third shirt for just an additional two dollars each. I made a list of sizes and a grid of how many in which color and went shopping.

Bright and early on a Wednesday morning, I schlepped Lexi, 8 big plastic bowls, a bag of dye packs, salt and dye fix, a second bag of string, rubber bands, super balls and marbles, and three jumbo-sized bags of t-shirts from Target. ("You got a lot of kids?" the clerk was startled into saying. "No, just one, but he hates to wear the same thing twice," I shot back.)

The teacher's aide, an Early Childhood Education major named Josh, was particularly good at tying hard knots and twisting rubber bands tightly around balls and marbles (it makes a nice target/giant polka dot effect). His 20-year-old fingers are far more limber than my 56-year-old ones (or Miss Kimberley's 38-year-old ones). We spent an hour showing them how to twist and tie, how to get different effects with the marbles or folding the fabric, and then actually tying the shirts.

The kids had mostly stuck to the basic colors—we let them choose up to three—with bowls of pink and purple for the princess contingent. We also had black for a number of Goths in the making: black and white, with some black and red and a couple of kids prepping for Halloween with black and orange. I made plastic tabs with the names of the kids and the one to three colors they has selected so there wouldn't be any "That's' my purple and pink shirt!" "No, it's mine!" arguments going on.

We rinsed the lumps of fabric and moved them to the second dye baths. I poked and prodded and turned shirts while Miss Kimberley and Josh played a rousing game of something resembling "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego" with the kids. An hour later, we rinsed shirts and put the few that wanted a third color in for another bath while the kids ate lunch and went down for a nap. We rinsed the two-color shirts and started to hang them.

"Ohhhhh, Houston, we have a problem," Kimberley moaned softly.

I was pinning shirts on an art rack. "What?" I kept my voice low so the kids wouldn't wake up.

"We've got a lot of Christmas going on."

I pinned the last shirt and hurried to the other side of the room where Kim was working at the second art rack. "What do you mean?"

"A number of the kids opted for red and blue on white. Very patriotic. The tags _say_ red and blue, but—"

"Urk." Ten t-shirts, all red and _green_. I had put the dye bowls in Roy G. Biv order—or something close to it. We had tossed the empty dye packets in the trash—too tempting for little fingers—but figured we could keep things straight. Apparently not. The only big plastic tubs I could find at the dollar store were hot pink and lime green—the dye baths all took on a weird cast because of it. "I'm sorry, Kim, I though I had it under control."

"'sup?" Josh came in from the laundry room (with a campus full of toddlers, it was necessary) with a basket full of rinsed shirts in hand.

"A minor snafu," I sighed. "I mixed up some shirts—they got green instead of blue."

Josh stopped. "What?"

"They were right next to each other—red-orange-yellow-green-blue—no indigo, so we put the black there—violet, and then pink at the end."

"Um—" He looked guilty. "Don't kick your own, butt, Sandy. Kick mine. I'm blue-green colorblind. I was in a rush on the second round through—I _thought_ I might have mixed them up…" He made a face. "I am soooooo sorry…"

Because I bought mega-packs of t-shirts, we had extras; when the kids woke up, we had the few with problems tie new shirts and promised the parents they would be ready the next day. They were all pretty cool about the situation; one mom was even delighted. "I can hide these for Christmas!" she burbled. "By then he'll have forgotten he even made them and we can give them to him and his sister for presents!"

A real lemonade out of lemons kind of gal.


	71. My Kid Swindled Your Honor Student

May, 2010

* * *

><p><strong>My Kid Swindled Your Honor Student At The Ferengi College Of Business, Where Students Learn To Profit From More Than Just Mistakes<strong>

Back in college—when I was a dewy-eyed young thing madly in love and ready to be The World's Greatest Teacher, I took a day-seminar on communicating.

The instructor stood at the table with a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter on his table. After we had gone around the U of tables and introduced ourselves, he said, "There is a 3x5 card in front of you, and a pencil. On the 3x5 card, please write the instructions for making a peanut butter sandwich."

There were a couple of snickers, but we set to work. Within minutes, everyone was done—except for one little smidge of a girl across from me who was writing at the speed of light and had already covered the first side of the card. The instructor craned his neck and smiled faintly, but politely let her continue for several minutes until she finished with a small sigh. She handed hers up the row; he glanced at it, fought back another smile, and put it at the end of the cards.

"Now, I shall read out the instructions on the card. My assistant, Bob, will follow the instructions." Bob, who had been quietly skulking in the corner, came forward. The instructor cleared his throat. "'Put the peanut butter on the bread.'"

Bob put the jar of peanut butter on top of the bread.

"Well, _that_ doesn't look very tasty. Let's see: 'Take bread out of the bag, put the peanut butter on it.'"

Bob grabbed a fistful of slices from the bag and set the jar on top of them.

"Marginally better."

The instructor continued thumbing through cards. "Much the same. Oh, something new. 'Yell, 'Honey, make me a peanut butter sandwich and bring me a beer!''" The small class burst into laughter, and the guy in the far corner turned fire engine red. "Aside from adding an ingredient to the list—alas, I have no magic wand to turn you into a sandwich." More guffaws as he flipped cards. "Ah." His eyes flicked toward the young woman who had turned in her card last. "Miss… Yamamoto?"

"Jayna," she added.

"I'll bet a quarter I can guess her major field of study. With no hints. Any takers?"

Sucker bet, I was sure, so I sat and waited. Bob finally popped a quarter on the table. The instructor scrawled something on a piece of paper. "Miss Yamamoto?"

"Computer Science, Programming and Core Theory."

The instructor held up the paper. COMPUTER PROGRAMMING. He snagged the quarter and pocketed it. "Many of you are English majors—but only a computer programmer could communicate well." He pulled out her card. "Bob." Bob stood at attention. "'Step one: Remove twist-tie from bag. Step two: set twist tie in secure location, so as not to lose it. Step three: Open bag.'" Bob was following the instructions exactly as dictated. "'Step four: Remove two slices of bread. If new loaf, choose from one of the following: A: two pieces from the front; B: two pieces from the middle; C: two random pieces. . Choice is dependant upon result desired later. Choice A will result in loaf being used uniformly front to back. Choice B will result in bread slices being well matched, having started at the apex, or top curve, of the loaf and working outward in both directions. Both A and B will result in the "heels" of the bread being left to the end and matching up. Choice C will result in mismatched pieces and possible anger of parent, spouse, boyfriend or girlfriend. If a loaf is already in use, it is advisable to continue the pattern already set.'"

Damn, she could write fast.

"'Step five: Set bread on plate so that the 'outsides' are resting on the plate and the insides are facing up. This will result in a uniform sandwich. Step six: Remove lid from jar of peanut butter. Step seven: Set lid in secure location, so as not to lose it. Step eight: If using 'natural-style' peanut butter—'" He broke off. "In outline form, no less. Using Miss Yamamoto's instructions, even a phys-ed major could make a perfect peanut butter sandwich."

After that, we drew cards for partners, removed pictures from envelopes and took turns describing line illustrations—a square with a triangle on top and a circle in the middle of the triangle; a cube with a star on top, things like that. But we weren't allowed to say "triangle" or "circle" or any definitive term. We had to say things like, 'Two inches from the left margin, draw a vertical line five inches long that is balanced from the middle of the page margin. At the top of the line, draw a right angle horizontal line all the way to the right, until you are two inches from the right hand margin. At the bottom of the line, draw a right angle horizontal line all the way to the right, until you are two inches from the right hand margin. Starting at the end of the top horizontal line, draw a vertical line straight down to the second horizontal line.' Jayna Yamamoto and I both drew tens, and that was how she described a square, the first part of our picture. We won, hands down.

I remembered that weekend because of popcorn night.

We frequently grab a fun movie—in this case, _Wargames_—pop popcorn, dish up ice cream and kick back. We Mallards are a wild and crazy bunch.

John Wood, as Professor Falken, had just ordered Matthew Broderick and Ally Sheedy off the island. "Listen carefully. Path. Follow path. Gate. Open gate, through gate, close gate. Last ferry 6:30, so run, run, run."

I burst out laughing. Computer geeks; a special breed.

"Is it _that_ funny?" Lily teased.

"Norma Dorchester," Ev said, who had been laughing almost as hard.

I stopped laughing. "Oh, my god. I hadn't thought about her in years."

"Norma Dorchester?" Ducky asked.

"Part-timer, about ten, fifteen years ago. Very part-time—she lasted three days."

"That's a record," Ducky laughed.

"We asked her to straighten up the shelves. You know—take out things that didn't belong there, clean up the alphabetizing," I said.

"Un-for-tu-nate-ly," Ev said, suppressing her giggles, "We didn't explain it in detail."

"Didn't think we needed to," I added.

"So, after a couple of days, one of the customers came to the front desk with a puzzled look. 'The rainbow is quite nice, but I'm having trouble finding the new Jill Churchill. Could you help me?' We went back—and discovered Norma had been very, very carefully rearranging the books… by color of spine. All the red books here, all the blue books there… Very pretty, really. Just not so hot for finding things."

"It took her three days to screw up eight full bookcases. Took us three weeks to fix it."

"How did you miss it for three days?" Ducky asked.

I shrugged. "We thought she knew what she was doing." Before anybody else could say it, I added, "That was my first mistake: thinking."

Ducky reached for the popcorn. "Better not make it a habit, then."


	72. Fair Winds and Following Seas

_Dedicated to Paul Ford_

* * *

><p>August<strong>,<strong> 2014

* * *

><p><strong>Fair Winds and Following Seas<strong>

_(traditional Naval farewell)_

"Well… _damn_." I stared at the computer screen, unable—unwilling—to process what I was reading.

Friends.

Friendship.

So many variations on a theme…

I have people I've been friends with almost from the day my parents brought me home from Charles Drew Memorial. Laurie Peadie, my "bosom bow" from preschool onward… Dawson Carver, the only kid I knew in grade school whose parents were _divorced_ (this was the early 60s, after all); we were devoted fans of the housekeeper his dad hired. She taught all three of us some amazing kitchen skills and Dustin even ended up head pastry chef at Eagles' Nest in Nantucket.

There were friends from high school and college, where we kept in touch with Christmas cards, sporadic letters and postcards and "I'm going to be in town next week, wanna get together for lunch?" fly-by visits. It was interesting to see how some people changed so radically—and how some people remained absolutely the same (plus a few extra pounds and wrinkles, that is).

Enter the 1980s and the internet. I discovered how to argue like my debate coach never thought I could. With the magic of copy and paste and internet research (pre-Wikipedia, no less) I became the queen of insomnia-fueled discussion and ended up with some longtime friends.

At least once a week someone posts a meme (I use the term but admit I'm still not 100% clear on the definition) on Facebook extolling the virtues of internet friendships. I "like" it every time. I have a hundred or more people I consider very good friends, not a one I've ever met in real life. And Arthur Dixon was on he top of the list.

Thanks to IMDb, I stumbled over a message board for the show _CGIS._ It's been on TV forever and I've been a fan since day one. Despite Ducky's "as if" snorts and Gibbs' out-and-out guffaws, it really is a good show. Think CSI on the water—and to keep it from getting monotonous, they occasionally mix it up with the FBI, CIA, local CSIs and even NCIS. (Gibbs laughed so hard I thought he'd have to be hospitalized on that one.)

Given that Arthur had grandkids Lexi's age and older and was right between Ducky and me age-wise, we became good friends almost instantly. When I mentioned I was "finally" getting married, he asked if he should be jealous—I told him to consult his wife. We batted back and forth online for over a decade and I even forgave him for introducing me to a time drainer as bad as Facebook: online fanfiction. (Boy, have things changed since the days I helped crank the mimeo machine for the old _Shore Leave_ zine.)

And now…

Now…

I propped my chin on my hands and let out a long sigh.

"Are you mad at me, Mommy?"

I only jumped a little bit. Lexi is a born Ninja. "No, sweetie, I'm not mad. Well—I guess I am, kind of. But not at you."

"Who at?"

I didn't grump at the grammar. "Oh… fate, I guess." She looked puzzled. "I just found out that a friend of mine… died."

Her eyes widened. "Who….?" She asked, drawing out the word.

With a medical examiner for a father, she's neither unaware of or afraid of death. It's… one of those things. But she doesn't want to lose anyone, either, and we have a wide circle of extended family and friends. "No, hon, it's nobody you know." She almost visibly relaxed. "It's a friend of mine from online. Ah—you remember the coloring pages websites?" I clicked on a fresh tab and opened the "LEXI" list and scrolled down to _Norse_. A black and white line drawing of Odin popped up. "Arthur sent me all those links, all those cool sites, his grandkids liked to use them. We send each other funny things or interesting sites, I hadn't heard from him for a while, so I sent him an email with a bunch of LOL Cats and—" I realized I was rambling. "Well… his wife just let me know he—he passed away last week." I waited for the questions.

"Oh." She looked thoughtful for a long moment. "Can I print some stuff? _May_ I print some stuff?" she corrected as I drew breath.

Kids. Between attention spans shorter than a gnat with ADD and no real feeling of loss, they bounce from topic to topic and rebound form bad news pretty quickly. (Supposedly when the eccentric Pomeranian lady (not cat lady) next door died, my then-five-year-old brother said, "Gee, that's sad, are we having meatloaf for dinner?" with no pause between thoughts.) I didn't comment or criticize, just said, "Yeah," and scooched my chair out of the way so she could point and click. Her "Thanks!" wafted back as she grabbed the stack of paper and bolted for the backyard. I shrugged and turned back to reading—and wishing the words would change. But they didn't…

I didn't see Lexi again until she came in for lunch, which she asked if she could take back to her art room. "So long as you don't get paint in the food or vice versa, I guess so. You're awfully busy out there, what are you doing?"

"Oh—just coloring…"

Not long after lunch, Liily, Ev and Charlie arrived. I was grateful for the backup; being it was Saturday, Suzy had the day off and Ducky had been called in on a case. It sounded like Lexi was going to do the unthinkable: pass up her afternoon walk with Grandma. Since Victoria can't go out on her own, I wasn't relishing pulling Lexi away from her masterpiece.

And I was right. When Lexi came in for a refill on food, Mother looked crushed when Lexi said she was staying home. Lexi grabbed her hand and tugged her down the hall and had a hurried, whispered conference; when they returned to the kitchen, Victoria was nodding understandingly and advised me that after she and Evelyn and Lily returned from their walk, "we" would be having tea in Lexi's Loft. I didn't relish schlepping food and drink out to the back of the garage, but I figured it was a one-time request and declined to comment.

Apparently "we" meant Mother, Lexi and Charlie. Charlie took control of the schleppage and politely banished her mothers to the house saying there wasn't enough room for all of us out there. (True enough.)

It wasn't until my assistance was needed that they emerged. "Lexi requires a manila envelope and cardboard backers—or a box—and an address," Charlie said formally.

"Um, sure. Whose address?"

"Mrs. Arthur." When I gave her a confused look, she clarified, "Her husband passed away his morning?"

"Oh—_oh_… That's Mrs. _Dixon_. And, yes, I have heir address."

I must have looked as puzzled as I still felt. "I wanted to tell her I'm sorry." Lexi held out a stack of papers.

I caught my breath on the first sheet. _Dear Mrs. Arthur_, read Charlie's neat handwriting. _My name is Lexi Mallard. My mom is a friend of Mr. Arthur's. He was a good friend of my mom's and he sent a lot of neat websites with coloring pages for me. I want to share these with you to tell you I'm sorry. These are gods and goddesses of the underworld. They'll help him make friends so he won't be lonely._ A tiny corner of my mind wondered if she had mentioned this polytheism to Fr. Parker. _I hope you like them. _In unsteady printing followed _LEXI MALLARD. _Then, _PS, I know my mommy is sad, too. _Then, _PPS My Auntie Charlie helped me write this._

As I flipped through pages of Yama, Pluto, Hades, Mictecacihuatl, Hel, Ereshkigal, Anubis and the rest, smiling despite the tears, Charlie leaned over and murmured, "I suggested, 'I'm very sorry for your loss; but Lexi said, 'He's not lost, she know where he is!'"

I couldn't stop the laugh. "Did I do something wrong?" Lexi fretted, moving closer and peering at the pages.

"No, sweetie," I said, giving her a hug and dropping a kiss atop her head. "You did something _very_ right. And I'm sure… Mrs. Arthur… will like them. Very much."

* * *

><p>Good-bye, Chief. Sandy and I will miss you. I'm sure you'll be reading the next stories somehow, somewhere—but, oh, I just wish I could hear your feedback.<p> 


	73. I'm Going Crazy Want to Come Along?

April, 2012

**I'm Going Crazy. Want to Come Along?**

* * *

><p>"It will teach her responsibility."<p>

I didn't drop my gaze.

"Independence."

My look was plain: _she's three and a half_.

"The virtues of planning ahead, delayed gratification…"

I threw up my hands in a "this is your party, Sparky" gesture and turned back to the bay window display I was working on that celebrated the history of the space program.

I all started with the Whistling Monkey Cowboy Band. I'll be kind and call it that, the mythical children's band from the Baby Blues comic strip; the real band is just as annoying, just as addictive to kids, and if I mention them in a negative way (as in "mind-numbing, drool-inducing, ear-bleeding, utter and complete crap") they might sue me into my next incarnation. So Whistling Cowboy Monkey Band they shall be.

Ducky and I had no problem spending money on Lexi. (Far from it.) But there were limits. No pony. No sports car. No cell phone (thank you, Lindsay, for that one). While we bought her the occasional Whistling Monkey Cowboy Band items, it was in conjunction with a birthday or holiday or very occasional treats. If she wanted the newest CD, DVD, whatever, she usually had to pay for it herself, out of gift money or money she earned.

Since they put out CDs and DVDs the way Harlequin puts out books, she ran through her money frequently and at a rapid clip and was always looking for new ways to supplement her income. Face it, at not quite four there aren't a lot of chores she can _do_. She has regular chores that are expected as a member of he family, but she can pick extra chores from the chore jar or ask around and earn some extra quarters or dollars—and Charlie is always a good source for subcontracted work at either bookstore. But she really needed a steady source of income to support her habit.

An allowance and a soft touch father were a perfect combination.

The next Saturday she sat at the breakfast table, trying not to bounce on her seat while giving Ducky anxious looks. He looked baffled for a moment, then the fog cleared. "Oh! Yes. Allowance day."

Chortling, "Yea! Yea! Awwowance day!" under her breath, she slipped off her chair and stood by his side, waiting semi patiently.

"Quarters? Or dollars?"

Dollars? Plural? Holy cow, how much was he—

"Dowwars, pwease, they smush in my sneakers better."

I winced remembering Jodie Foster in _Freaky_ _Friday_, pulling off her sock and change flying everywhere.

"One, two, three—and four."

Four bucks? _Four bucks?!_ Ye gods and little fishes, I was in junior high before I wangled _three_ out of my parents, and if I wanted to eat in the cafeteria, it came out of that money, too.

"One for each year," Ducky added, probably feeling my outrage from across the room. "And one to grow on."

"Thank you!" She skittered across the kitchen and dug in the whatnot drawer. "Now I know whom to hit up for a loan," I muttered, giving Ducky an arch look. Four bucks, indeed.

"I didn't get an allowance until secondary school. Times change."

Lexi pulled out the little ledger book for her chore money account. "Is this right?" She gave me a mildly skeptical look.

"Let's see. Last Sunday, fifty cents for folding and putting away all the towels. A dollar for mopping the floor in Grandma's bathroom. A dollar for straightening up and alphabetizing the canned goods and helping me make a shopping list. Another dollar for doing the same thing on Monday to the spices. Five for dusting all of the baseboards—" It was Ducky's turn to look scandalized. One, she did a _very_ detailed job. Two, it was _all_ of the baseboards in the house, took her all afternoon on Tuesday and Wednesday. And, three, it kept _me_ from crawling around on my hands and knees, clearing the dust and dirt from miles of detail work. A bargain, in my opinion.

I tallied the rest of the odd jobs. She hadn't had a chance to go shopping for a while, and there had been a couple of decent jobs in there. "Are you cashing out your _whole_ account?"

"How much for the new awbum?"

God bless our collection of LPs. To me, "album" means music—even the Whistling dingbats. "Five-ninety-nine at Costco." Keep 'em cheap, keep 'em hooked. I have a creepy suspicion their promoter was a dope peddler in a prior career. "Call it seven."

"Um…." She looked at the balance and pursed her lips.

"I have several errands to do his morning," Ducky said from behind his coffee cup and paper. "We can go to Costco… possibly Deutsch… would you like to go to Deutsch?" he asked innocently. Deutsch Discount Books. Great. I'm married to a dope peddler, too. (Okay, we're a matched set.)

Lexi looked at her fan of dollar bills. "If I take away sixteen that weaves…"

"Twelve-seventy-five."

"O—kaaaaay…" she drew out. "Sixteen dowwars, pwease," she said formally.

I pulled out my wallet. "I've only got a twenty. If you give me the four that you have, that will be even." She did the math on the back page of the ledger—not because she didn't trust me, just because we encourage her to practice her math skills when she gets the chance. Satisfied, she handed over the singles, took the twenty, watched me update her ledger, then bolted from the room.

It only took them fifteen minutes to be ready to go. "Home before dark?" I asked with a mildly sarcastic eyebrow flick.

"I'm bringing home ribeyes from Costco," Ducky said, flipping the Morgan key from the rack by the back door.

Oooooh. Barbecue. I can be bribed. I waved my hand as they tumbled through the door. "Have fun storming the castle!"

* * *

><p>I knew they wouldn't be back by lunch (nope; they grabbed pizza at Costco) but I was sure they'd be back before Mother's afternoon walk and tea. And they were, laden with boxes and bags. "Wow."<p>

While Ducky unpacked and put away the perishables, Lexi showed off her purchases. She knows that if _we_ suggest a trip to a bookstore, we're willing to pick up the tab, or most of it anyway. And, boy, Ducky picked it up with both hands. She pulled out book after book from the canvas bag (this time she had chosen the one with _Outside_ _of a dog, a book is probably man's best friend, and inside of a dog, it's too dark to read.—Groucho Marx_ printed on it) and stacked them on the table. A _Madeline_ omnibus. Several _Amelia_ _Bedelia_ reissues. A couple of _American_ _Girl_ books. _Katie_ _Can_ _Do_ _It!,_ which looked like a _Dora_ _the_ _Explorer_ imitation but (sorry!) less annoying, with some _Carmen Sandiego_ mixed in.

Ducky was now lounging by the sink, leaning against the counter with the most deadpan expression I've ever seen on a human being, inspecting his nails with such intensity you'd think a promotion depended upon them.

"Wow, great choices, honey."

"Wait! I've got _more!_"

That's my girl, keeping the economy going. I made, "Oh, nice," noises of the three (oh, _gawwwwd_) Whistling Cowboy CDs. Lucky us, they were on sale. (I deserve an Oscar, I really do. The damned things are banned at school, so we'll get the concert at home.) Another stack of books from Crown (Crown _and_ Deutsch on the same day? Double wow.) and a bag from… Toys R Us?

"Uh huh!" Lexi grabbed and held aloft a net bag of good old-fashioned marbles.

"Um—okay…"

"I'll bet Mommy is interested for whom you bought the marbles." Minute pause. "And why."

"They're for Miss Samantha!" Before I could say it was nice to buy a present, however odd, for her teacher, she added, "She said she wost her marbows so I bought her more!"

Fortunately she skipped out of the kitchen to catch her grandmother rising from her nap. She missed me clamp my hands over my mouth, my eyes watering with suppressed giggles.

Ducky had given in and was holding on to the chair back for support. "Imagine driving down Bartholomew Fair Drive when she let that fly," he managed to get out around gasps of laughter.

I scrubbed the heel of my palm against my eyes. "I'd rather not. We'd be hunting for _my_ marbles—among other things."


	74. Is That N like November?

August, 2013

**Is That N like November? No, N like Nancy****.**

* * *

><p>Like most small kids, Lexi loves to be of help around the house. Sometimes it's more of a hindrance than a help, but we're big cheerleaders of helping Mom and Dad (and Grandma, of course). She's aces at measuring ingredients and scooping cookie dough onto parchment, loves to reorganize things (sometimes in a system that makes sense only to her) and will help Mother brush the dogs until they're at risk of baldness. (Throw in the incentive of money and she'll do darn near anything.)<p>

Thus it was that I was up to my eyebrows in bread dough and Lexi was carefully shaking in more flour. The phone rang (of course; sticky hands are as good as being in the loo to make the phone ring or the doorbell chime) and I let loose with a string of printable (and creative) cuss words. Lexi yelled, "I'ww get it!" dropped her measuring cup on the bread board (resulting in a minor snowstorm) and pelted down the hall toward the desk phone in Ducky's office. Two more rings, then silence. I grabbed the flour and kept kneading.

After a good seven or eight minutes, when I was trying to shape the dough into something like a couple of braids, Lexi scrambled back into the kitchen. (Comparing world cultures via bread. Don't ask me, I just do what the teachers ask, so I'm making challah on a Tuesday night.) "Who was it?"

"Dr. Davis." She puffed out her chest in pride. "I wrote it on a pink for Daddy!"

One of the 'while you were out' pads. "Excellent. Now, wash your hands and you may sprinkle sesame seeds on top."

By the time Ducky got home, the scent of baking bread filled the kitchen. It smelled marvelous. "Yes, I made a loaf for us," I said before he had a chance to ask. "I'm going to turn it into garlic bread to go with the lasagna." He beamed his approval. "And your social secretary left a message on your desk." I tipped my head toward Lexi, who was under the breakfast table playing with several dolls. I wasn't sure, but it sounded like she was in the middle of hostage negotiations.

Ducky nodded and headed toward his office. I heard the faint jingle on the kitchen extension that meant someone else was dialing out. I went back to impaling veggies onto skewers to roast in the broiler. He was back a few minutes later, message in hand and a strangled look on his face. He silently held out he pink paper.

"What's wrong? Can't read her printing?"

"No… Just—read it."

The front of the paper had "time" filled out in lopsided but readable numbers; she had carefully put the military time of the call, 1601 (Uncle Jethro's contribution to her education), noted the "to" section as "Daddy" and on the "from" space put a arrow. I turned it over and saw that the whole back was filled with:

_D LIKE DOG  
><em>_A LIKE APPLE  
><em>_V LIKE VIOLINNE  
><em>_S LIKE SUN_

"I'm sure Joshua told her to be very careful in writing things down."

"And she was," I said, a tad defensively.

"No argument from this quarter."

"Hey—" I waved the note in front of his nose. "Just be glad Dr. Krishnakumar Senevirathne didn't call."

* * *

><p>I work in the customer service department of a Fortune 500 company. We use the military phonetic alphabet to clarify spelling. When my "Is that N like November?" was answered with "No, N like Nancy," I had no answer beyond "Okay, then." I guess it's like the people sitting at the intersection when the like changes because they're waiting for the right <em>shade<em> of green.


	75. Give Me A Quarter And I'll Tell You

June, 2010

**Give Me A Quarter And I'll Tell You The Meaning Of Life**

* * *

><p>Inspiration comes from all sorts of places.<p>

Erma Bombeck claimed that her husband bought her a burial plot as a gift because "I was eating your meatloaf when it just hit me." (Yeah, I'd've hit _him_ and the plot would have been in instant use.) Ducky, on the other hand, brings home roses when he hears meatloaf is on the menu. He loves my meatloaf.

Isaac Newton allegedly got smacked on the melon with an apple and came up with the theory of gravity. Supposedly a customer ordered "Thinner! Thinner!" French fries and the miffed chef sent back wafer thin potatoes—and created potato chips. The microwave most of us can't live without came about when Percy Spencer was working on a radar set and discovered a candy bar in his pocket had melted. Need a replacement for rubber during wartime? You, too might discover Silly Putty.

Need help learning to tie your shoes? Solve a murder.

Almost all little kids have trouble tying shoes and Lexi was no exception. Velcro tabs? Snap. Buckled sandals? Okay, they weren't even, but they were buckled. Laces? Nightmare.

"Bunny ear, bunny ear, tie them together so they don't get lost." Works okay in the _Button-Lace-Zip-and-Snap! _book; for some reason, the bunny ears turned into a Gordian knot and I actually gave up and cut the stupid things off the shoes on three occasions.

And Allie-oop, rechristened Lexi when she heard the nickname on a show on PBS, was bound and determined to learn to tie her shoes. She seemed to be doing better tying shoes on _other_ people's feet, and it didn't take long to figure out why.

"Totally different angle. Tying your own shoes, your knees are in the way—" Ducky said.

"Or your belly, when you're pregnant," I said, wincing with the memory.

"Or your boobs," Ev snickered.

"Not a problem I've had," Ducky said dryly.

"I see what you mean," I said hastily, before Lexi could ask why Auntie Ev and Auntie Lily were giggling and snorting. I put my legs into a V and patted the carpet. "Sit here, sweetie." Lexi plopped herself in front of me and I scooched her back. I reached around her—not as easy as it sounds—and tugged up her laces. "Okay. You pull up the laces so they're tight… make an X… push the right one under and through… pull down tight. Make a loop—" (We had to call them loops; bunny ear was a dead loss. These bunny ears weren't pointed enough to be bunny ears.) "—go arounnnnnnd… push the curve throuuuuuuuugh… and pull down tight."

"Wexi do it!" she demanded.

"Go for it."

With her knee in the way this way and that, she did the best she could to get an angle on her other foot. She started off with her X and the first half of what could be a square knot, if not careful. She pulled the laces down so hard I flinched, seeing visions of them giving way under pressure and tearing apart.

She stopped, death grip on the laces. "Make I loop…" I cued softly. She perked up. After several tries, she got a loop and circled around with the other lace. Trying to push through the start of the second loop, things fell apart. Back to square one.

After several tries and failures at the "push the curve through" stage, she pulled off the shoe and whapped it on the floor in frustration. "This! Is! Mean!"

"I know it's hard, sweetie, but you're doing better every time. That second loop takes a little time to get right."

She whapped the shoe on the floor again and glared at it.

Ducky patted his lap. "Give it a try with Daddy?"

Still glaring at the offending footwear, she stuck her hand in the shoe and four-footed walked to the other side of the coffee table.

"Up you get…" He hoisted her up to his lap, her feet resting on the edge of the table. (Normally this is a big no-no—but I knew his knee was killing him and if he got down on the floor to try this, he wouldn't get back up.) "Okay. Let's start from scratch." He untied the left shoe. "Make an X… under and through… pull tight… loop… around… through… pull—" He broke off, staring at the bow.

"Da?"

He collected himself. "Sorry, sweet pea. You try it."

She got the bow started and he coached her when she hesitated, but clearly his mind was elsewhere. After a couple of frustrating failures, she finally got a shaky, lopsided bow. "I did it!"

"Yes, you did! Excellent job!" He gave her a hug.

"Pete! Repeat!" She scrambled to the floor, untied both shoes, took them off, then put them on again and went through the task of retying them. There were a couple of false starts and missteps, but she was getting the hang of it.

Ducky continued to stare at her with a distracted look. "Earth to Ducky," I called out.

He didn't jump at the bait. Instead he shifted his feet and stared at his shoes. He murmured something I couldn't hear and cocked his head. Ev and Lily and I exchanged questioning looks and shrugs. "Lexi, could you come back here for a moment? I'd like to tie your shoes."

"No!" She scrambled up and loped out of bounds. "Wexi do!"

"Yes, you can do it now and you did a _wonderful_ job. Daddy just wants to tie your shoes to see something."

"No! No, no, no! Nay, nay, nay!" We knew she was teasing by the laughs around the negative answers (Charlie's input showing through) but she danced around the room until she came to light under the baby grand—well out of reach.

"Wanna tie my shoes?" Ev plopped back on the floor and waggled a foot in the air.

"Yes, please." She looked surprised—he looked serious. He stood up. "Lie on the couch, please."

"Honey, what—" He held up a hand and I shushed.

Ev lay down on the couch, looking at him curiously from her propped up on elbows position. He turned her feet from one side to the other, nodding and going, "Mm-hmm." Then he untied both sneakers, loosened the laces, tightened them up, tied quick bows and stopped to look at his handiwork. "It is," he said softly.

"_What_ is?" I asked.

Still no answer. He turned from the couch, made a quick inspection of my shoes; "Inside!" He wheeled around, looked at Lily's shoes. "Inside!" he cried again. "Yes!" He all but ran for his desk and grabbed the phone. "Jethro? I need you to go down to the evidence locker. You were? Oh, good. Yes, Petty Officer Linderman. It's been bothering me all week, I couldn't put my finger on it. But you know how sometimes you have to leave a problem alone, come back to it from another direction. I remember once in Calais—"

Ducky's digression carried them from wherever Gibbs had started to the evidence locker, where he cut off Ducky's tale in mid-word.

"—blood spat— Oh. Yes. Please, look at the shoes. What do you see?" Ducky listened for a moment. "Describe how they are tied." He listened some more. "Put the shoes as though Petty Officer Linderman were standing in front of you, left and right together properly." After a moment: "Where does the bow on the shoelace fall: outside, center or inside?" He burst into a grin. "Jethro—_Petty Officer Linderman was murdered_." He nodded defiantly. "No, no, I'm certain—and my daughter can prove it!"

When he had hung up, Lily and Ev and I almost fell over each other demanding an explanation. He crooked his finger at me; I reluctantly hauled my butt off the floor and stood where he indicated.

"Evelyn? Lily?" They joined me in our impromptu police line up. "Lexi? Could you come stand with Mommy for a moment?" Giving him a suspicious look—he might still try to tie her shoes—she semi-leapfrogged her way across the room and stood at the end of the line. "Lexi…" He gave her a conspiratorial look. "Who tied your shoes?"

"Wexi!" She looked affronted, like he was trying to steal her thunder.

"That's right. _Lexi_ tied her shoes. Mommy? Who tied your shoes?"

"Ah—I did," I said hesitantly.

"Lily?" She pointed to herself and shrugged. He turned to Evelyn. "Evelyn, my dear?"

"Ah—you did," she said, in the tone of 'is he slipping his cogs?'

"Yes. _I_ did. Compare your shoes, ladies."

Lexi ignored what was going on; she was busy pleating the hem of my blouse, releasing it then re-pleating it. "Okay, my shoes are ratty, Lexi's have flashing lights, Lily's are pink and purple plaid and Ev's look like she could kick down a brick wall. And?"

"And… you, Lily and Lexi tied your own shoes. I tied Evelyn's. Compare the placement of the bows."

We gave them a closer look. "Well… the bows are kind of on the inside. Evvie's are more centered." I flopped my hand over in a 'well?' gesture. "You're a neat freak; so?"

"So is Lily."

"Well, yeah," she said. "But when you're tying your shoes, it's easier to tackle it from that angle. Knees and—things—get in the way."

"Precisely! But when you are tying shoes on someone else—" He stabbed a finger at Evelyn's feet. "You have a centered approach. The bows are even."

We looked at each other's feet more intently. Lexi, bored, went chasing after Contessa. "You're right. But what does this mean?" Lily asked.

He grinned. "It means that Petty Officer Linderman was murdered. His wife said he came home, changed into his yard work clothing—including his sneakers—and was climbing up the ladder to work on the rain gutter when the ladder gave way. The injuries _could_ have been sustained in a high fall, a short beating—or both. There are other minor inconsistencies—_but Petty Officer Linderman did not tie those shoes_. The bows were dead center and even. I suspect his wife might have had a paramour who assisted in the death and the covering up of same."

* * *

><p>The next day, Ducky discovered that—no, he was wrong.<p>

Petty Officer Linderman was killed by Mrs. Petty Officer Linderman. _Linderman_ was the one with a paramour; _missus_ caught him across the side of the head with her tennis racket (which looks a lot like hitting the frame of a ladder in a post mortem) and sent him crashing onto the corner of the brick hearth (and those injuries look a lot like falling onto a brick barbecue pit).

But he was mostly right. Close enough for government work, anyway.


	76. The More People I Meet the Better I Like

Dedicated to Tara and Whitewalls...and special customers

Summer, 2013

* * *

><p><strong>The More People I Meet, the Better I Like My Cat<strong>

Every summer when my brother came home from college, his old boss welcomed him back with open arms. Ray delivered pizza for Zeppy's Pizza-2-Go and I'm willing to bet Domino's now defunct '30 minutes or it's free' guarantee was retired because of Ray's frequent breaking of the sound barrier on his deliveries.

At least once a week he would come home snarling about "idiot city planners" and their choices of street names. In one subdivision he ran into Wandering Willow Way North, Wandering Willow Way South, Wandering Willow Court East, Wandering Willow Court West, Wandering Willow Drive, Wandering Willow Terrace, Wandering Willow Avenue, Lane, Place, Courtyard, Pass and so forth. None of the streets had more than 8 houses (one only had 2) and they were clumped together in the same pod—and not a willow tree for miles. The subdivision planner was probably on the hit list of every delivery service around.

I remembered this when driving Lexi to a birthday party one year. Her little friend lived in a brand new subdivision called—for real—Storybook Acres. The directions? Priceless. 'From the Shady Acres Shopping Centre (_sounds __more __like a __retirement __home_), go 2 miles south on Killarney. Enter through the white scrollwork arch with carved roses. Take the first right onto Goldilocks Place. Take the left curve, it becomes Rapunzel Road. Go 2 blocks, the road forks. Left is Sleeping Beauty Cove; take the right, Rumplestiltskin Drive. Go 1/4 mile to the Enchanted Castle clubhouse. Go right on Gingerbread House Lane (_the __first street I could really get behind_). We're the fourth house on the right. Our mailbox stand is Dopey.'

No, they didn't think their mailbox looked dopey—the mailbox stand _is_ Dopey. All of the mailbox stands are one of the seven dwarves, repeated throughout the subdivision. They had seven two-story house variations in a row: front door left/top floor balcony left; front door left/top floor balcony right; door center/balcony left or right; door right/balcony left or right; door center, balcony in the back yard. All of the houses with Dopey mailboxes had a center door and the balcony in the back. If I had lived there they would have been shopping for a rubber room. I'm betting there are plenty of Saturday nights where people stumble home from the local bar and spend hours trying to open the wrong door.

Every part of the country has this phenomenon. When we went to visit Fran and Cal, we Googlemapped the directions before we left town. I thought Ducky was going to cry. _Take Camino de Dona Carmelita to Camino de Dona Catalina to Camino de Dona Carlotta to_—you get the drift.

"Ignore all that," Fran said cheerfully when I called to confess that we were lost—again. "Write this down: go back to Lankershim and Sunrise, there's an AM/PM on the northwest corner, Walgreens on the northeast, Circle K on the southeast, Shell station on the southwest, it's the only corner with that exact layout. Go west on Sunrise. Go a mile and a half. Turn left at the two-story brick house with the three Jacaranda trees—there's only one with three trees. They have purple blooms all over them. Go four blocks. Turn right at the house with the big black double doors and the dancing skeleton mailbox. Go four or five blocks to the cheesy ranch house—trust me you can't miss it, it looks like a tacky knockoff of the Ponderosa or a bad 50s Western. Turn left. Go two blocks until you see the scrap metal dragon. Turn right about half a block later. Go two blocks. Turn left when you see the black cat sitting on the fence. Or by the fence. We're the fourth house down on the right with the old hippie VW van in the driveway with _I Sing the Body Electric_ and some great artwork on the sides."

"Wait, wait—what if the cat isn't there?"

"She will be!"

We got lost another four times. Not because of her directions but because we got distracted—there were some interesting things between points A and B. There was the house with the glassed-in enclosure in front with a couple of trees growing in it and through the mesh ceiling—and about a hundred birds flitting about (to the interest of a half a dozen cats in the yard). The house with the "ginormous" pine tree and equally huge (and probably permanent, since this was the middle of summer) Xmas decorations. The house with the bookcases built into the fence and the words "lending library" above them. (I really wanted to stop for a closer look but we had already fought our way back to Sunrise twice and Ducky was in no mood to dally.)

Finally we made our way from Jacaranda trees to skeleton to cheesy ranch house (truly hideous and impossible to miss, painted in day-glow turquoise and coral) to the dragon to the cat…quite possibly the biggest cat I have ever seen. Makes Garfield look like a shadow. The heck with Maine Coon, I think this cat is part panther. The fence had a huge platform built onto it that was the size of a card table and it was just barely big enough for the cat. Okay, to be charitable, she was a fluffy beast and that covered a lot of acreage.

"That's a biiiiiiiiig kitty," Lexi drew out, nose pressed against the glass of the back seat window.

"Understatement," Ducky muttered in a 'no, we are not taking that cat home to Virginia with us' voice.

"Is the cat glued in place?" I asked Fran when we finally tumbled through her door. "I swear, she didn't even twitch the whole time we sat there!"

"Nope. She just lies there all day. She might jump down to water the begonias, but she goes right back up. She eats and sleeps out there during the day. She's out from the time they wake up til just after dinner."

"And none of the dogs terrorize her?"

She started to giggle. "Far from it. When she was a kitten, this huge Rottie came bounding up to the house and I'm sure they figured she was done for. She just marched up to the dog, went 'miau' in this teeny, tiny voice and the dog skidded to a stop. You could see him thinking, 'Something ain't right... Mama told me how much fun this is. Run up to cat, bark at cat, scare cat, chase cat. Did you miss the memo? Not get the script pages?' He kind of shook his head and stepped up... _barkbarkbarkbarkbark!_ And Tara closed the gap, right up in his face, went 'miau' again and this poor dog started backing away. Well, Tara figured this is an invitation to play and starts bounding toward the dog—_who turns tail and books_. So we have this kitten—" She cupped her hands. "—chasing this Rottweiler—" She threw out her arms like she was hugging an elephant.

"Oh, my god. How embarrassing for the dog." I was almost in tears from laughter. Fran is a _very_ expressive storyteller.

"As she got bigger, she got tougher. Sheldon and Marcus adopted a little boy a couple of years ago and last year, well, one of the dogs who didn't know any better slipped out, ran over to the property, going straight for Ryan. Never even got close. Tara catapulted—" I groaned. "—off the perch, streaked after him, tackled him, beat the living bejesus out of him and hounded him all the way home." I groaned again; Asimov said it best, the beauty of a pun is in the 'Oy' of the beholder. "That's when the Yancys built that platform. She flops around, the kids make a fuss over her. But she'll puff up like a crazed Brillo pad, quite impressive really, if a dog even looks the wrong way at the house or someone strange walks close by."

"I like that cat."

"So do we. She considers all of the kids to be her kids. The kids nicknamed her Nanny McPhee!"


	77. That's Not Writing, That's Typing

March, 2013

Thanks to VG LittleBear for the accidental plot bunny!

* * *

><p><strong>That's Not Writing, That's Typing<strong>

**(Truman Capote, reviewing Jack Kerouac)***

Unlike some florists and bakers, we don't exclude whole chunks of customers based on a whim. Our _We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to Anyone_ sign is the polite version of "if you act like a jerk, we're going to punt you to the sidewalk." Jerks come in all stripes.

Same with writers. Books are a matter of taste, and I don't monitor or censor what people read. I may roll my eyes after they walk out the door, but as a librarian I know said regarding the _Scare Yourself Silly_ series, "Reading habit first. Taste comes second."

All well and good. But as Tevye put it, "Some things I will not, I cannot allow." And every once in a blue moon I exercise my right to _not_ sell something I find offensive. (I've thrown out a lot of gift catalogs with items even drunken frat boys would have called bad taste.)

"It's sold, like, eight zillion copies." Valerie was playing devil's (and how!) advocate.

"So did the Pet Rock. And Chia Pet is still in business. No accounting for taste—or lack thereof. _No_."

"First Amendment!"

"Applies primarily to the ability to speak out against the government without fear of being put in the dungeon—and even that has _some_ limits. I'm not objecting to it being written—" I rolled my eyes and made air quotes. "Ha-ha 'written'—or published. I simply choose to not sell it."

"You're walking away from revenue!"

"Yeppers. If I sold ten used copies a week that's—what—a hundred twenty a week and you _know_ it won't sell _that_ many _every_ week—I could order another rack from Button B'zarre and top that easily."

"We don't have room for another rack. We _do_ have shelf space."

"You wish."

"It's a _book_. Censorship is _bad_." Val pointed to the t-shirt on the rack behind me that bore similar wording.

"Am I picketing? No. Am I calling the Supreme Court? No. Am I burning books? No. I'm just not selling it." When she started to object again, I said firmly, "It's _crap_."

"We sell a lot of crap!" she protested.

"Have you even _read_ it?"

She started to answer, then shut her mouth and looked abashed. "Ah—no."

"You are on shaky ground, sister. I even watched that stupid cartoon for one episode before I panned it." (How stupid? So stupid I can't even remember the name.)

"You didn't read..." I nodded and she gasped. "You did? _You_ did?!"

"Yes," I said grimly. "By the end of the first chapter, I wanted to throw it through the wall. Two more and I wanted to throw it into _orbit_. It is _dreck_. Ignoring the fact that this 'love story' encourages physical and emotional abuse—and that is too much _to_ ignore, thank you—it is so badly written I can't stand it! Characters don't say something; they—" I searched my memory "Oh, god, they 'muse matter-of-factly.'"

Valerie's lips twitched. "Seriously?"

"That's just one I can remember. It stuck with me. There were worse. Remember, this thing was based on a _Twilight_ fanfic. It makes _Twilight_ look like—" I stumbled for a comparison. "_Shakespeare_." Tried but true. "And you know how much I love _Twilight_."

"Not."

"Exactly. I wrote some of the worst _Star Trek_ stories back in junior high and high school. Even published a couple. But I have _burned_ fanfic that was better than this."

"Burned?"

"Yep." At her questioning look, I admitted, "Well, I was watching my brother's kids fairly often and I had visions of explaining things I didn't want to talk about."

Valerie's look turned almost gleeful. "Reallllllly?"

"Yeah, yeah, I wrote a couple of dirty stories. _Bad_ dirty stores. Found 'em while I was packing to move. I had a bonfire in the trash can."

"I just can't believe someone _published_ it." Valerie had abandoned her stint as Perry Mason.

"And someone—plenty of someones—paid cold, hard cash for it. I wouldn't mind a percentage of what she made—I know, I know, what's the difference? I'm mercenary. Pennies versus pounds." I leaned back in my chair and reached out to the stack of _DO NOT SELL_ items under the counter. "Hang on... here we go..." I pulled out a copy of _The Fanzine Editor's Guide to the Alphabet_, a little digest sized booklet that had been in a box of D&D books, zines and other fannish stuff we found at a yard sale. (I had owned a copy ages ago; it disappeared in a move. 5 moves equal a fire, I've been told.)

I looked around to make sure nobody had slipped in without my noticing. "G...H...O...R... okay." I cleared my throat. "S is for Slash," I read in my Story Time voice. "Slash is a non-cannon pairing and was invented by the K/S writers back when we were all little fen. Common pairings are Kirk and Spock, Starsky and Hutch, Starsky, Hutch and Huggy Bear, Starbuck and Apollo, Beretta and Fred (Wait—Beretta and Fred? Euuu.). There is no pairing or group so weird, so twisted, so totally out there that one person won't write it, another won't publish it and a third won't read it." I held up the booklet. "And _that_ was in 1979."

"Precognition?" Valerie had just been arguing for fun; I'd heard _her_ describe the book as a waste of trees.

"Perhaps. But my line in the sand can be called _Fifty_ _Shades_ _of_ _Oh,_ _Hell,_ _No."_

*Also Robin Williams as a kindergarten Truman Capote reviewing Dick and Jane


	78. Quoth the Passive Aggressive Raven

February, 2016

* * *

><p><strong>Quoth the Passive Aggressive Raven: "Nevermind"<strong>

"I am a _wimp_."

I snorted. "You are _not_ a wimp. _I'm_ the wimp. You said 'candy sale.' I said 'no.' And what am I doing on this lovely Saturday?' I spread my arms wide. "Tagging sales envelopes to boxes of freaking chocolate rabbits."

Dorothy managed a smile. "If you said 'no' I would have said okay. You _said_, 'I'm kind of busy…' and I talked you into it by saying 'two Saturday afternoons and help me take the boxes to school on Monday.'"

"Yeah. So _you_ are _not_ a wimp."

"Watch me with my mother-in-law," she said morosely. "First Sunday of every month we have a family 'thing.' She's always telling me how to—well, everything."

"Anything more specific?"

"Oh, how the kids are being raised, the money we spend, the car we bought—" she rattled off. "I'm sure she would have a way to improve what we're doing." She splayed her hands to indicate the disaster in my living room.

"Oh, one of _those._" I stapled a form and manila envelope together. "Let me give you a bit of wisdom I got from Dr. Laura." Dottie looked aghast. "I know—I call her a stopped clock: right twice a day. This was one of those times. If you have a buttinsky and you _cannot_ tell them to mind their own bloody business, simply tell them, 'wow, that's an idea; I will certainly look into that.' Okay, that won't work for the car you bought. But—oh, say, 'You really shouldn't wear that color, it makes you look so sallow.' 'Thank you, I had never really noticed, I'll certainly take another look.' 'You really shouldn't let the children stay up so late.' 'We'll definitely think about that.' You never promised to look or think long or hard, so…" She giggled. "'I will definitely consider that' covers a lot. It gets you out of doing things you have no intention of doing, while it sounds like they won the battle."

She gave me a pious look. "I will definitely consider that."

"Cute. I give you a life skill and what do I get? Smart ass."

She giggled again. "I'll let you know on Monday how it went."

/ / / / / / / / / /

One drawback to owning a cargo van: you schlepp stuff for people. Whether it's a friend who's moving, flats of flowers for the Kennel Club fundraiser or 94 boxes of chocolate for the second grade class Easter Bunny sale, you get begged for transport. (I should be glad it was just the second grade and not the whole school. The PTA was running the show, but the room parents were in charge of distribution. Dottie Marcon was the room mother for Mrs. Keough's room; when Mrs. Keough and I almost came to blows over her wanting to keep Lexi behind, the principal couldn't bump Lexi up a grade this late in the year so she just moved her to Mr. LaFond's class. Mr. LaFond made a deal with Lexi: slog through the regular stuff and I'll give you extra credit stuff that rocks. She loved it in his class. I was so grateful, I agreed to be the room mom without a quibble.)

And I'm cool with being the village pack mule. Granted, the overpowering scent of chocolate was killing me on the drive to school, but I could fix that soon enough. Lexi had to sell the candy to _someone_, right?

Dottie helped me unload the van and stack the boxes on the cafeteria table with the big **2** at the end. While we waited for the flood of kids, she gave me the Cliff's notes version of Sunday's interrogation.

"She was absolutely floored! She started in about Christina's after school job, that she works too many hours, it's going to ruin her grades—and I just said, 'That's a very good point. Matthew and I will definitely consider that.' Blew her right out of the water. She just sat there with her mouth open for almost a minute, then said, 'Oh. Well. Oh—good.' Hardly heard a word from her the rest of the night."

"Excellent."

The dismissal bell rang and within minutes the cafeteria was flooded with kids kept in scraggly lines by teachers doing yet another extra job.

Lexi's boxes were still at home, so she just sat on the small stage at the end of the room (the cafeteria doubled as an auditorium, much like when I was in grade school), legs crossed and—no shock—a book in her lap.

Slowly but surely the crowd dissipated and the number of boxes dropped. There were a few absences and the teachers once again had an extra chore of schlepping the leftover boxes back to their classrooms and securing them until the missing kids returned. (Why did I even contemplate being a teacher?)

Dottie's middle child, Edward, had already perfected the high school slouch and attitude at 6th grade. Now he slunk toward us with all the enthusiasm of a slug with a head cold. I remember being a pre-teen; the fact that any parent let a kid make it to adulthood is a miracle.

"Ma? Can we hit Burrito Barn for dinner?"

Dottie was about to correct the 1) whiny "Ma," 2) the can vs. may and 3) the choice of ptomaine poisoning. I _knew_ she was going to say something—I recognized the look. I've _worn_ the look.

Her face cleared. "That is something we can consider," she said, polite but noncommittal.

Edward actually grinned. "Cool!" He slung his backpack over his shoulder. "Hey, Lizard!" he yelled to his sister Elizabeth. "Ma says we might do Burrito Barn!"

Hm. He didn't miss the "consider."

Dottie looked almost smug. I reached over and patted her on the head. "You have learned well, grasshopper."


	79. I Disagree With What You Say

Summer, 1968

* * *

><p><strong>I Disagree With What You Say, But I Will Defend To The Death Your Right To Tell Such Lies!<strong>

While I was growing up, there were days I was amazed my brother lived to adulthood. Not only because of the motorbike accident that pitched him over a Studebaker and into the ICU ward. Nor, later on, the foolish chutzpah of taking his kid sister to the biggest rock festival (and biggest drugfest) on the planet. It was more the little day-to-day things that made my parents pull their hair out, the "is there a brain in your skull?" moments, the dozens of times he broke curfew four, six, _twenty-nine_ hours (that last time Gamma was babysitting and didn't know he was supposed to be back Friday night; if it had been Daddy, he would have been murderized). It was more a snowball effect, one thing piled up on another until the elephant that was the cherry on the sundae.

Elephant?

Yes… elephant.

The summer between Ray's high school graduation and the start of college was a trial for my parents, worse than any Ray would later face in court. He was clearly practicing alibis, working his way up the food chain to see just how much the parents would swallow before the willing suspension of disbelief died. (This was good training for when he had teens of his own. His kids got away with _jack_.)

"I was studying at the library." (The library closed at 9:00 and was a 15 minute drive. This was at 11:00.) "We went back to Aaron's after the library closed." (Mmmmm… possible. Of course, the fact that my parents didn't know that Aaron was a D+ student who couldn't find the library with a guide map and the legend "library" with a red arrow on it worked in his favor.

"We were in the booth in the back at Denny's, the manager had a heart attack and they called for an ambulance, they were blocking the exit so we couldn't even leave until they took him away." (Three hours late. If they took three hours to transport the guy, he was toast.)

"There was an elephant blocking Buchannan Road."

My father went through the roof. "For god's sake, Raymond! If you're going to _lie_ at least make it a _plausible_ one! Don't insult my intelligence!"

"But—"

"Go to your room!"

Ray's jaw dropped. He was 18, a legal adult, a summer from leaving for college—and he was being _sent to his room like a toddler_? "Dad, I—"

"Go! _Now!_"

I sat in the living room, stunned, while Ray stormed upstairs. The stupid fib wasn't the worst of it—he had missed dinner, and he _loved_ Mom's pork chops. It must have been something really important for him to miss dinner.

(Probably a girl.)

With Ray exiled upstairs and listening to the Beatles _just_ loud enough to be disrespectful but not so loud that Dad was willing to trudge upstairs to ream him out for it, Dad flipped the dial to wait for the Movie of the Week. We were just in time for the last bits of the local news.

"—if you've missed the posters and banners, the circus is in town! Yes, it's time for peanuts and popcorn and cotton candy, wild animals and trapeze artists! And, speaking of wild animals, we had quite an afternoon with them! The caravan moving the animal performers to the site out of town had a _little_ accident. Nobody was hurt, no animals were hurt—but commuters had a difficult time to get home for dinner," the newscaster said with a laugh.

Mom and I exchanged uneasy glances. _Uh-oh…_

The TV screen showed footage of a giraffe loping across the road, then a shot of a bear in a brightly colored ruff sniffing at a station wagon (while the occupants flattened themselves against the doors on the far side). Then—

An elephant.

Smack in the middle of Buchannan Road.

"Eloise was having too much fun to listen to her trainer. She romped around the road—" (Elephants _romp_?) "—and made drivers very nervous. Allstate would do a double take for a claim reading 'an elephant sat on my car!'"

Dad signed, pushed off the couch and walked upstairs. Minutes later he returned, Ray following behind (and trying hard to not look _too_ smug).

He had it made in the shade. From there on out, any time Mom or Dad would give him the, 'yeah, sure' look, all he had to do was say, "Elephant?" and it flew past the radar.

* * *

><p>I said I steal from everyone. This proves I even steal from people I don't particularly like.<p> 


	80. Starkle, Starkle, Little Twink

Winter, 2015

* * *

><p><strong>Starkle, Starkle, Little Twink<br>****Who the Heck You Are, I Think**

After fighting the building commission—and losing—for the better part of two years, I gave up on the idea of putting a second floor on the bookstore. I had long ago maxed out the available space, going from street to street, and if I crammed one more bookcase on the floor, the fire marshal would have my head on a stake—right after he padlocked the doors. So we (we!) opted for a second site.

It made sense. Powell's in Oregon had done it ages ago—granted, they were lucky enough to have a store across the street, so customers could just stroll from one to the other. We didn't do so well. But the Bookman's chain in Arizona had stores from one end of the state to the other and offered free transfer service by the next business day. The drive between DC and Virginia wasn't that bad; this was a doable plan.

While the property I chose wasn't perfect, it wasn't the fixer-upper that many first time homebuyers end up with. But I still gulped a little when I signed the loan papers; it had been a long time since I'd had a mortgage. This place was as big as the M street store, but on two levels—we could start off spread out and mush together at a later time (if need be).

I cast out lures for new employees and let everyone already on the payroll know that there would be a lot of extra hours available. I made an executive decision to become, well, an executive. Cassandra Talmadge-Mallard, General Manager, High Pooh-bah and Chief Bottle Washer. Valerie got boosted to manager of the M Street store, Chanda took over her spot as assistant manager and I started training Geoff to run the Mesa Verde Mall location. It was going to take a good three months to have the store ready to stock and open—which gave me three months to cull from M Street and go on back to back buying trips.

The bad news: this was taking palace during the last three months of the year and we wouldn't get any holiday sales at the new store.

The good news: we wouldn't have the chaos of trying to open a business in the middle of the holiday season; we could ease into the opening.

The bad news—the really bad news: I would be on the road in the middle of the holiday season and all the snow, slush, ice and rain of winter

Definitely good news? Ducky and Lexi frequently came with me on the weekend hops, se we had lots of mini vacations.

And with an able crew, clear blueprints and an awesome contractor in charge, I had no qualms about sailing out of town.

We only ran into a problem once. I made it to Maine and discovered an association of animal charities was throwing a week-long book sale starting the weekend before Thanksgiving. I took one look at the article in the paper, saw the pictures from the prior year of the tables filling _two exhibit buildings_ at the state fairgrounds, realized I would never be able to fit things in the van and yelled for help. Ducky rented a U-haul and drove out with Evvie and for five days they helped me select, sort, bag and box the books. With the two of them helping, I more than tripled what I would have gotten on my own. Ev drove my van back with the dozen or so boxes she got, making a straight shot to get home by Thanksgiving. The U-haul, loaded to the brim (probably overloaded, to be honest) was going to be a slower trip.

I crowed about my score all the way home. The prices were a "ganga" deal, even before the half price slash of the last day. With what I had already bought and culled, this put me at 90% of what I needed for the new store. I wouldn't have to do oh-my-god stress trips over the next month and a half—and to make up for us skating in at the last second, Lily had taken over Thanksgiving dinner. It was a win all around.

It was a good thing I had a switch-hit driver. Immediately after Ev left, the roads from Maine to Virginia went to hell in a hand basket. The roads were a mess, white out conditions and pileups of ten, twenty, sixty cars all over the place. The main highways were all but shot. We chugged through little side towns at a slow but progressive 25 mph (at one point following the snow plow for close to ten miles). And it was fun in a way. Little towns have interesting junk stores and such; Ducky stumbled over a bunch of index card file boxes jammed full of old family recipes (some going back to the 1800s), and I found a trunk full of 60s dresses in metallic fabrics that might make up for us being gone for a week (Lexi is very fond of pop and mod clothing). We'd be back in time for leftovers, at least.

And small towns decorate for Christmas like nobody else can. The decorations are often decades old: great big colorful balls, swags as big around as a VW bug, miles of tinsel, lights, and Santa's sleigh flying over Main Street. They might add to the collection every year, but almost never discard anything.

"It's like a trip through time," Ducky mused. We were sitting at a stoplight in Winterhaven, Massachusetts (subtitled "Christmastown, USA" on their _**Welcome To**_ sign). It may have been _the_ stoplight, given the population. "Those angels have a definite Art Deco look to them."

"And that's a way-way-early Coca-Cola Santa."

"And look at the lights! They have more than we _ever_ had," he laughed. "Green, red, yellow, blue—twinkling, flashing—what a kaleidoscope!"

"It's pretty impressive," I agreed. It reminded me of some of Lexi's artwork, before she learned restraint with the glitter tubes. Almost blinding. But pretty. "It would take hours to list everything up there—but we don't have hours to sit here and look," I nudged gently.

"True, true," he agreed. But we continued to sit at the intersection.

"So… why are we not moving?"

Ducky sighed and looked at me sheepishly. "I'm trying to figure out which one is the traffic light."

* * *

><p>Yes, there will be another tale of just how Sandy ends up with the "new" store. No ETA for publication, it's still in the blocking stage.<p> 


	81. A Closed Mouth Gathers No Foot

Winter, 2015

* * *

><p><strong>A Closed Mouth Gathers No Foot<strong>

While the new (new to me) building hadn't gone to rack and ruin, it did need a bit of work. Bookshelves, of course, miles and miles of bookshelves, just for a start. I made dozens of trips to Gearson's, a used building supply company that specialized in reclaiming materials from teardowns. I've found everything from stack of lumber (at cut rate prices, about a third of the rate at Lowe's or Home Depot) to some gorgeous glass doorknobs. Ducky got hooked on the yard when he found a Victorian fire screen in mint condition (it now graces Mother's room). And they even steered me toward a general contractor I could afford. I'm good at bookcases—I can slap them together in my sleep—but I really don't like tackling electrical or plumbing issues. Enter Rudy Bascharat, retired (but still licensed) contractor who took on occasional jobs just for fun and a bit of cash.

Enter also Julia Williams, owner of The Crazy Cat Lady.

Julia was thrilled, ecstatic, even, to discover she was getting a new neighbor and the neighbor would be selling books. She was one of a small handful of business owners who had hung on when Party Hearty died, hoping someone would open a new anchor business and maybe drag in some new blood. She also had a bit of a "thing" for Rudy—and the worst memory for names I've ever seen.

One time she called me Mrs. Beaches; another time, Mrs. Rocklin. By questioning her, I discovered she had a mental image of a beach with a rock breakwater, trying to link that to Sandy. Close… Geoff, as the manager of the new store, stopped by frequently to keep an eye on the proceedings; Julia pictured him as Geoffrey the Giraffe from Toys R Us. Unfortunately, he often became Bert or Ernie, since one stuffed critter is much like another. He just shrugged philosophically and said, "Beats Big Bird."

I told her about Julie Smith's Rebecca Schwartz series, and the character who used "pigball" to substitute for words she couldn't remember. Julia tried that trick; didn't turn out well.

About a month away from opening, Julia's sister stopped by for lunch and Julia made it a point to drag her over to meet Rudy. He's a cute little button of a man—about 5'2", round little body, round little face, bald as a billiard ball and the best sense of humor around.

Good thing, too. Julia came bopping through the door, almost skipping as she brought her sister along. "Rudy! This is my sister, Maggie, I've told her all about you. Maggie, this is—" There was a moment of sheer panic on her face, then the clouds parted. "Rudy Whackamole!"

I closed my eyes for a moment. Maggie was clearly used to her sister's inability to get names right or have things stick in her memory and just shook her head. I had visions of losing a good neighbor or a contractor—or both.

Rudy, bless his heart, just stuck his hand out and grinned. "My friends just call me Air Hockey."


End file.
